"ODD  FOLKS", 


BY 

OPIE    READ, 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  CAPTAIN'S  ROMANCE." 


F.  TENNYSON  NEELY,          1 14  Fifth  Avenue, 

NEW  YORK.  PUBLISHER.  MDCCCXCVII. 


?* 

# 


Copyrighted,  189T, 

in  the 
United  States 

and 
Great  Britain. 

by 
F.  TENNYSON-  NEELY. 


(Ail  Rights  Reserved.) 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  SUPERINTENDENT'S  EXAMPLE     .  .        .        .            5 

THE  BRICK  OFFICE       *'       .        .  .        .        .        .      30 

THE  GREEK  GOD  BARBER         .        .  .        .        .          41 

UGLY  RACHEL      .        ,        .        .  .        .        »       .      52 

THE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE       .'•••,.  .        .        .          62 

HlS  SlXTEEN-ElGHTY-NlNE               .  .           .            .            .95 

BIG  HEP  AND  LITTLE  LADY    ^  .        .  .        .       '.108 

AN  IVORY  SMILE          .        .        .  .        .        .        .    120 

OLD  JOBLEY      .        . v       133 

OLD  BILLY   .        .        .        .        .  .        .        .        .     140 

SWINGING  IN  THE  DUSK    .        .        .  .        .                 146 

A  MEMORABLE  MEAL  .        .        .  .        .        .        .     153 

A  DEAD  MARCH        .        .-               .  .        .        156 

AN  IMPERIOUS  COURT  .        .        .  .        .        .        .     159 

His  SPECIAL     ..       '.        ..  .        ..        165 

AT  THE  SPRING     .        .        .        .  .        «        .        .     I7t 

NOT  FOR  THREE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND  .        .        .        183 

HER  SWEET  DREAM      0        .        .  .        .        .        .    194 

(3) 


M130309 


ODD  FOLKS. 


WANTED  A  CERTIFICATE, 


AT  a  small  town  on  a  railway  running  through  Ken 
tucky  an  express  company  had  been  robbed  of  85,000. 
The  loss  of  the  money  was  insignificant  when  viewed 
simply  as  the  removal  of  so  many  pieces  of  paper  bear 
ing  the  portrait  of  a  distinguished  American,  but  the 
necessity  to  hold  up  some  one  in  the  glaring  light  of  the 
law  as  a  dazzling  example  was  a  momentous  consider 
ation.  It  may  be  observed  that  a  great  corporation 
never  knows  an  evil  doer  as  an  individual,  but  regards 
him  wholly  as  an  "  example  " ;  indeed,  the  closest  re 
lationship  and  services  that  have  endured  through 
many  years  can  be  forgotten  by  a  great  institution  when 
it  sets  out  to  establish  an  "  example."  And  I  have 
often  wondered  why  some  one  has  not  taken  up  the 
business  of  professional  "example,"  to  undergo  a 
sentence  to  prison,  for  a  reasonable  salary.  Well, 
$5,000  was  taken  one  night  from  the  express  office  in 

Springdale.     The    safe   was    blown    open,   the    town 

(5) 


6  ODD  FOLKS. 

trembled  for  three  days  in  a  delirium  of  excitement, 
and  the  agent,  with  a  bruise  on  his  head,  lay  in  his 
room  at  the  tavern.  At  that  time  I  was  operating  a 
detective  agency  in  Louisville  (truly,  a  despicable  call 
ing,  I  must  say),  and  the  division  superintendent  of  the 
express  company  sent  for  me.  A  great  man  was  he. 
Consciously  impressive,  portly,  with  animal  life  running 
like  an  engine  within  him.  As  I  entered  his  private 
apartment  he  turned  in  his  chair  and,  looking  at  me  a 
moment,  said : 

"  So  you  are  Capt.  Blake  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Blake  ;  yes,  sir." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  heard  of  our  little  affair  down 
in  the  country  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  have  read  an  account  of  it." 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"It  is  only  now,  sir,  that  I  have  found  it  to  my  ad 
vantage  to  think." 

"  Ah  ;  I  see."  And  after  a  short  pause  he  added : 
"  Now,  I  tell  you  what  we  have  done,  and  then  I'll  tell 
you  what  we  want  you  to  do.  The  agent  at  Springdale 
has  been  arrested." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  me  as  if  he  expected  me  to 
show  astonishment,  but  I  didn't.  I  simply  said : 
"Yes;  "  and  he  continued:  "  About  six  years  ago  he 
came  to  us  most  highly  recommended,  strictly  sober, 
and  with  no  bad  habits.  There  is  no  bank  in  the  town, 


THE  SUPERINTENDENT'S  EXAMPLE.  7 

and  on  numerous  occasions  he  has  been  intrusted  with 
large  sums  of  money.  He  is  of  a  good  family,  and 
during  many  years  his  father  has  been  cashier  of  a  bank 
in  this  city." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  stroked  his  side  whiskers, 
and  looked  at  me,  and  I  fancied  that  I  could  hear  the 
great  engine  of  health  pumping  within  him.  lk  I 
authorized  his  arrest  last  night,"  he  went  on,  "  and  I 
have  a  dispatch  telling  me  that  the  town  is  greatly  ex 
cited.  The  physician  is  unable  to  decide  whether  or 
not  the  blow  on  the  head  was  self-inflicted,  but  he 
agrees  that  it  looks  suspicious." 

44  Well,"  said  I,  "  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  scheme,"  he  answered.  "  There  have 
been  so  many  similar  cases,  you  understand,  that  I  be 
lieve  we  could  convict  him  upon  the  testimony  of  the 
physician  and  other  suspicious  circumstances ;  and  al 
though  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  have  an  example,  you 
understand,  yet  I  should  like  to  know  beyond  question 
whether  or  not  he  is  guilty.  I  may  be  overparticular, 
but,  the  fact  is,  I  want  him  to  make  a  confession.  I 
may  be  a  trifle  soft-hearted,  you  understand,  but  I'd 
like  to  know." 

"  Don't  you  always  want  to  know,"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  surely,"  he  quickly  replied,  "  but  as  a  gen 
eral  thing  we  are  willing  for  \\\Q  law  to  settle  that  point 
and  act  accordingly.  But  down  in  that  part  of  the 


8  ODD  FOLKS. 

country  an  example  is  badly  needed,  and  if  this  fellow 
Haines  could  be  brought  to  confess,  why  it  would  be — 
well,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  us,  you  know." 

"  And  your  scheme  ?  " 

"Is  this.  I  want  you  to  be  put  into  the  cell  with 
him,  win  his  confidence,  and  worm  a  confession  out  of 
him." 

"Rather  an  old  scheme,"  I  was  bold  enough  to  re- 

piy- 

"  Oh,  I've  been  told  you  are  a  most  discouraging 
man,  but  I  am  determined  upon  this,  and  I  am  willing 
to  pay  handsomely  for  your  services,  and  if  you  suc 
ceed  the  amount  of  compensation  shall  be  doubled." 

This,  of  course,  interested  me,  and  during  more  than 
an  hour  we  laid  our  plans  and  talked  them  over,  and 
when  I  left  him  it  was  with  these  words  :  "  You  may 
depend  upon  it  that  I  shall  do  my  duty." 

That  evening  an  officer  conducted  me  along  the 
main  street  of  Springdale.  The  sight  of  the  handcuffs 
upon  my  wrists  caught  the  eyes  of  the  corner  loungers, 
and  soon  a  crowd  was  following  us,  and  occasionally  I 
heard  the  remark  :  "  Got  him  all  right,  haven't  they  ?  " 
I  heard  the  words,  "  horse  thief,  I  bet  you,"  and  as 
unimpulsive  as  I  am  I  turned  around  to  confront  a 
mottled  face.  The  officer,  who  knew  nothing  of  the 
Superintendent's  scheme— who  was  proud  to  be  made 


THE  SUPERINTENDENT'S  EXAMPLE.  9 

so  important — gave  me  a  jerk,  and  the  mob  applauded 
him.  By  the  time  we  reached  the  jail  the  air  was  full 
of  "  horse  thief."  I  had  no  sooner  been  shoved  through 
the  door  into  the  corridor  than  the  words  "  hang  him  " 
smote  my  ears  like  a  blow  from  a  mallet,  for  I  knew  the 
abhorrence  in  which  my  countrymen  held  the  stealing 
of  a  horse ;  that,  charged  with  any  other  crime,  a  man 
might  hope  for  some  sort  of  a  hearing,  but  that  to  be 
suspected  of  horse  theft  was  more  than  likely  to  mean 
deaf  ears  and  quick  action.  The  mob  was  now  fierce. 
The  jailer,  a  fat  and  humorous  old  fellow,  stepped  out. 
I  stood  in  the  corridor  just  behind  him.  Near  me 
stood  a  man  holding  a  key  waiting  to  show  me  to  my 
quarters. 

"  Boys,"  said  the  jailer,  "  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  You  know  what  we  want,  Buck,"  replied  a  lank 
fellowr  who  had  assumed  command  outside.  "  We 
want  that  hoss  thief!  " 

"  Bill,  there  ain't  no  hoss  thief  here  !  " 

"  Tell  that  up  at  Bear  Waller  an'  up  the  right  fork 
of  Big  Sandy,  but  don't  tell  it  to  us.  That  feller  stole 
the  Widder  Cage's  hoss,  and  we  want  him." 

"  Who  says  so  ?  " 

"  Why,  Ab,  here."  And  I  saw  him  nod  at  a  fellow 
standing  near,  and  the  light  held  at  an  upper  window 
fell  upon  his  mottled  face. 

"  How  do  you  know,  Ab  ?  "  the  jailer  asked. 


10  ODD  FOLKS. 


"  Why,  McGee  'lowed  he  was  the  man,  and  he  was 
with  the  fellers  that  got  after  him." 

"  Where's  McGee  ?  Let  him  identify  him.  And  if 
he's  the  man,  I'll  agree  to  hang  him  myself,  and  then 
eat  a  foot  of  the  rope.  No,  boys,  you  are  wrong  this 
time.  You  have  hung  fellers  out  of  here  all  right 
enough,  but  you'd  make  a  mistake  this  time,  and  it 
ain't  exactly  right  to  make  such  mistakes.  I  ricollect 
they  hung  the  wrong  man  over  at  Hover  not  long 
ago,  and  it  caused  a  good  deal  of  talk  and  some  ill- 
feelin',  so  I  advise  you  to  be  more  particular.  Now,  if 
you  want  to  know  right  bad,  I'll  tell  you  what  the  man 
is  charged  with." 

"  Out  with  it,"  the  leader  cried. 
"  Why,  they  do  say  that  he  killed  a  man." 
The  light  was  still  held  at  the  window,  and  I  saw  the 
eager  and  expectant  countenance  of  the  leader  droop 
to  disappointment. 

"  Buck,  is  that  straight  ?  ' 
"  As  a  rope  pullin'  a  bucket  out  of  a  well." 
"All  right,  then,"  said  the  leader,  turning  about. 
;<  There  air  occasions  when  a  feller's  got  a  right  to  kill 
a  man,  but  nobody  ever  had  a  right   to  steal  a  boss. 
Boys,  let's  go  down  to  Tobe's  grocery.     I  understand 
they  air  goin'  to  cut  a  watermillon,  knock  a  nail  keg  in 
the  head,  and  wring  a  dishrag  down  there  pretty  soon. 
Come  on." 


THE  SUPERINTENDENT'S  EXAMPLE.  11 

The  jailer,  his  fat  sides  shaking,  stepped  back  and 
closed  the  door,  and  the  man  with  the  key  motioned 
me  to  follow  him. 

As  the  turnkey  was  fumbling  with  the  lock  I  heard 
the  nervous  pacing,  to  and  fro,  of  a  man  inside  the 
cell,  and  when  I  stepped  in  he  turned  about,  looked  at 
me,  and,  withdrawing  his  brief  attention  with  a  con 
temptuous  bat  of  his  eyes,  said  to  the  jailer : 

"Buck,  you've  been  acquainted  with  me  long  enough 
to  know  that  I  don't  want  to  be  shut  in  here  with  a 
horse  thief." 

"  Oh,  you  heard  them  fellers,  did  you  ?  Of  course, 
you  don't  want  to  be  shut  up  with  a  hoss  thief — don't 
want  to  be  shut  up  at  all  for  that  matter,  Jimniie — but 
there  are  some  things  we  can't  help,  and  bein'  shut  up 
with  the  first  feller  that  comes  along  is  sometimes  one 
of  them.  Tom,  stick  that  candle  up  there  over  the 
door  and  leave  it  there  till  it  burns  out  so  these  here 
gentlemen  can  see  how  to  entertain  each  other.  That's 
all  right ;  it'll  stick.  Well,  good-night.  Glad  we've 
got  room  enough  in  there  for  both  of  you,  and  if  you 
don't  find  bed  clothes  enough  shout  for  more.  In  fact, 
whatever  you  don't  see  in  the  dark,  ask  for." 

The  shooting  of  the  bolt  sent  a  chill  through  me, 
and  my  fellow -prisoner,  noticing  my  momentary  dis 
tress,  gave  me  a  kindly  look.  "  You  are  not  used  to 


12  07)7)   FOLKS 

it,"  he  said.  "  They  may  be  lying  about  you  as  they 
are  about  me.  It's  an  easy  thing  to  do." 

"  And  sometimes  a  hard  thing  to  disprove,"  I  replied, 
sitting  down  on  my  bunk,  opposite  his  own.  He  made 
no  reply,  but  turned  about  and  resumed  his  pacing  up 
and  down  the  cell.  I  was  careful  not  to  let  him  catcli 
me  gazing  at  him,  but  I  sat  there  studying  him  closely. 
And  surely  I  was  never  impressed  more  deeply  by  the 
bearing  and  the  countenance  of  a  man.  There  was 
something  about  him  that  was  more  than  graceful,  an 
attraction  new  to  me,  unexpected,  surprising.  I  had 
seen  studied  suggestions  of  it  on  the  stage — the  hand 
some,  brave,  reckless  gambler.  His  features  were  not 
regular,  his  nose  was  faulty,  his  chin  weak,  and  yet  as 
a  whole  his  face  was  strikingly  picturesque.  He  must 
have  been  about  twenty-five  years  of  age. 

The  flickering  of  the  light  told  me  that  the  candle 
was  dying.  Had  he  been  walking  so  long  in  silence, 
and  had  I  in  silence  been  studying  him  so  long? 

"  We'll  soon  be  in  the  dark,"  I  said.  "  I  hate  the 
dark.  But  it  is  in  keeping  with  this  miserable  hole. 
Here  a  sunbeam  would  be  like  a  bright-haired  child, 
strayed  into  a  den  of  vice." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  pausing  to  look  at  me. 

"Were  you  ever  on  the  stage?"  I  asked. 

"  No.     There  goes  the  light." 

Blackness  fell  about  us.     I  heard  him  stretch  himself 


THE  SUPERINTENDENT'S  EXAMPLE.  13 

upon  his  bed.  I  lay  down  to  ponder  over  him,  to 
speculate  upon  his  character.  I  wondered  if  he  were 
really  guilty.  Before  seeing  him  I  would  have  staked 
anything  upon  my  belief  in  his  guilt,  but  now  I  was 
uncertain.  Time  and  again  I  turned  over,  striving  to 
force  myself  to  sleep.  And  I  muttered  charges  of 
weakness  against  myself.  He  had  done  a  rare  thing — 
had  won  my  friendship. 


CHAPTER  II. 

LONG  before  the  sun  came  up,  but  when  the  misty 
dawn-light  began,  like  a  thin  fog,  to  stream  down  from 
a  high  and  narrow  window,  my  fellow-prisoner  arose 
and  resumed  his  walk.  And  with  a  strange  impatience 
I  waited  to  see  if  daylight  would  confirm  the  impres 
sion  that  had  come  upon  me  as  the  dying  candle  rays 
were  flitting  upon  the  gloomy  walls.  But  before  the 
day  was  strong  there  came  footsteps  down  the  corridors. 
The  slide-window  in  the  door  was  opened,  and  the 
thick  voice  of  the  fat  jailer  was  poured  in  upon  us. 

"  Boys,  stirring  about  already  ?  Don't  believe  it's  a 
good  plan  to  stir  about  much  before  you  eat  a  bite. 
Had  an  uncle  that  broke  a  colt  before  breakfast  and 
aged  so  fast  afterwards  that  he  died  at  ninety.  Bring 
the  wedding  breakfast  this  way,  Nick.  Our  cook  got 


14  ODD  FOLKS. 

married  this  morning  while  the  water  was  boiling. 
Hah,  how's  our  hoss  thief  this  mornin'?  Came  in  one 
of  bein'  a  nightmare  yistidy  evenin',  eh?  Yes,  sir; 
durin'  the  off  season  of  the  year,  when  the  boys  ain't 
got  much  to  do,  they'd  as  soon  hang  a  man  as  not. 
But  they  don't  mean  no  particular  harm  by  it." 

Thus  he  talked  while  the  turnkey  "  spread "  our 
breakfast,  and  he  stood  there,  his  great  round  face  fill 
ing  the  window,  until  breakfast  was  cleared,  and  even 
then  he  hung  about  until  it  grew  light  enough  for  me 
to  see  him  wink.  And  this  he  did  several  times,  slyly 
looking  at  me  and  then  at  Haines.  In  his  "squint" 
was  legible  the  fact  that  he  had  been  intrusted  with 
the  secret  of  my  mission,  and  I  cannot  say  that  it  was 
an  agreeable  discovery.  I  fancied  that  I  could  already 
see  unconscious  betrayal  stewing  through  his  hanging 
jowl,  and,  hardened  as  I  was,  I  must  have  blushed,  for 
I  grew  sick  at  the  thought  of  standing  exposed  before 
that  young  fellow,  meeting  the  contemptuous  look  of 
his  melancholy  eyes.  Then  the  daylight  had  confirmed 
the  impression  left  by  the  dying  candle. 

The  day  wore  along,  and  our  acquaintance  made  but 
slow  progress.  I  waited  for  his  advances,  but  he  made 
none.  When  not  walking  he  sat  where  the  light  was 
strongest,  reading  a  lead-colored  pamphlet. 

"What  are  you  reading?"  I  asked. 

"  A  fool  thing." 


THE  SUPERINTENDENT'S  EXAMPLE.  15 

"Who  wrote  it?" 

"  A  fool." 

"Ah,  I  didn't  know  that  a  piece  of  my  work  had 
found  its  way  into  this  place."  He  laughed.  "  I  sup 
pose  it  might  just  as  well  have  been  yours,  but  it  hap 
pens  to  be  mine — an  amateur  play  printed  at  my  own 
expense." 

"  Has  it  been  played  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  had  a  one-night  run  in  the  church  for  the  bene 
fit  of  the  same." 

"  Was  it  a  success  ?  " 

"  Quite.  Respect  for  the  church  debt  forbade  any 
one's  leaving  the  house,  although  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  tittering  when  the  moon  got  out  of  order,  burned 
the  negro's  fingers,  and  fell  down." 

"What's  the  name  of  the  piece  ?  " 

"  '  The  Detective.' " 

"I  suppose  you  make  him  a  hero." 

"  No  ;  a  black-hearted  villain." 

"  Served  him  right,"  I  replied ;  and  it  was  well  that 
lie  did  not  look  up,  for  I  felt  a  slow  shiver  creeping 
over  me. 

At  night  another  candle  was  placed  above  the  door, 
and  sitting  in  its  yellow  glow  he  grew  more  inclined  to 
talk  seriously  of  himself.  He  had  been  well  educated, 
had  tried  to  do  a  number  of  things,  had  done  ill — had 
failed  as  a  country  editor,  had  learned  telegraphy,  and 


16  ODD  FOLKS. 

at  last  had  settled  down  to  a  lonely  midnight  luncheon 
in  the  wayside  office  of  an  express  company.  I  was 
sorry  for  him,  for  I  knew  that  hidden  somewhere  a  suc 
cess  might  lie  waiting  for  him,  as  it  does  for  many  of 
us ;  but,  ah,  how  long  it  lies  waiting,  and  how  rusty  it 
has  grown  when  sometime  we  find  it !  His  features, 
now  that  I  had  become  better  acquainted  with  them, 
were  weaker,  and  this  increased  my  pity;  but  I  was 
resolved  to  do  my  duty,  I  would  win  him  if  I  could. 

The  days  passed  and  he  called  me  Dick.  We  had 
read  the  same  books.  In  our  admiration  for  the  same 
book  or  poem  lies  the  first  tottering  of  many  a  down 
fall.  In  a  similar  taste  we  recognize  our  second  self, 
and  shrewdness  shuts  its  eyes  and  dreams. 

We  talked  about  books,  and  those  of  his  favorites 
that  I  had  not  seen  I  pretended  to  love.  It  was  night, 
and  the  candle  was  burning  above  the  door. 

"  A  man  must  live  with  one  self  and  write  with 
another,"  he  said. 

"  We  all  have  two  selves,"  I  replied.  "  I  know  that 
I  have.  One  self  does  wrong,  and  the  other  self,  which 
is  a  sort  of  indulgent  parent,  suffers  over  it." 

He  looked  at  me  and  was  silent.  A  shadow  fell 
across  his  face.  He  looked  up  at  the  candle  and  said : 
"  We'll  soon  be  in  the  dark." 

"  We  are  always  in  the  dark,"  I  answered.  "  In 
darkness  while  we  are  doing,  and  only  step  out  into 


THE  SUPERINTENDENT'S  EXAMPLE.  17 

the  light  long  enough  to  look  back  and  find  that  we  did 
fi  wrong  while  in  the  dark.  I  would  give  half  my  life 
it'  1  could  recall  one  dark  night." 

He  leaned  toward  me.  "What  happened?"  he 
asked  hoarsely. 

"I  don't  know  but  I  might  as  well  tell  you.  A 
trouble  aired  is  lighter  for  the  airing.  It  is  the  secret 
trouble  that  eats  the  heart.  I  am  here  suspected  of  a 


"  Yes  ?  "  he  said,  eagerly. 

"  But  there  is  no  direct  proof  against  me.  Come 
closer.  That  fat  jailer  might  be  out  there." 

He  did  not  get  up  ;  he  scrambled  across  the  floor  and 
sat  down  near  me, 

"  I  had  been  out  of  employment  a  long  time,"  I  went 
on,  speaking  low,  "and  was  forced  to  quit  the  city.  I 
wandered  about  doing  odd  jobs,  desperate,  hating  the 
world.  Well,  one  day,  not  long  ago,  I  came  into  a 
neighborhood  not  far  from  here.  I  stopped  at  a 
farmer's  house  and  asked  for  something  to  eat.  He  re 
ceived  me  into  his  house,  placed  a  chair  at  his  table, 
and  treated  me  as  his  guest.  A  rainstorm  came  up, 
and  he  insisted  upon  my  remaining  over  night  with 
him.  Just  before  bed  time  a  hired  man  came  in  to  re 
ceive  his  wages,  and  I  saw  the  old  man  take  out  his 
wallet,  and  when  he  had  unwound  a  string,  laying  it 
carefully  across  his  knee,  I  caught  sight  of  a  $50  note. 


18  ODD  FOLKS. 

Soon  afterward  I  was  shown  to  a  room  just  above.  And 
I  laid  there  thinking  of  that  money.  At  first  I  turned 
over  with  a  shudder.  And  then  the  weary  miles  I  had 
walked  stretched  out  before  me.  T  could  see  the  dust 
in  the  road — and  the  heat  danced  on  the  hot  hilltop, 
and  in  the  glimmer  I  saw  that  old  man's  money.  I 
turned  over  again — not  with  a  shudder,  but  with  a 
mere  shiver — and  I  saw  myself  treading  that  dry  road  ; 
and  I  saw  a  railway  train  sweeping  past,  and  I  caught 
sight  of  two  men  as  they  tipped  their  glasses.  They 
saw  me,  and  one  of  them  shouted  :  '  Not  for  you,  poor 
fool.  I  rob  the  poor,  but  you  haven't  sense  enough  to 
rob  even  the  rich  when  they  spread  their  money  before 
your  very  eyes.'  It  seemed  that  the  train  slacked  long 
enough  for  the  scoundrel  thus  to  tantalize  me,  and  then 
it  thundered  on,  the  two  scoundrels  tipping  their 
glasses  again.  I  got  out  of  bed,  tiptoed  to  the  head  of 
the  stairway,  and  listened.  I  heard  the  ticking  of  the 
clock.  I  stepped  back  and  dressed  myself.^  Then  I 
trod  softly  downstairs.  In  the  room  a  light  was  burn 
ing  dimly.  The  old  man  and  his  wife  were  sound 
asleep.  His  trousers  were  under  his  pillow.  Slowly  I 
pulled  them  away,  and  without  noise  I  got  out.  Then 
I  ran  for  a  mile  at  least,  and  then  I  stopped  and  thrust 
my  hand  into  the  pocket — and  there  was  the  wallet. 
The  moment  I  touched  it  I  would  have  given  half  my 
life  never  to  have  seen  it.  But  repentance  was  now 


THE  SUPERINTENDENTS  EXAMPLE.  19 

too  late.  I  could  have  taken  the  money  back — in  fact, 
I  was  almost  decided  on  this  risk,  when  my  blood  shot 
through  me  at  the  barking  of  a  dog — and  dropping  the 
trousers,  but  gripping  the  money,  I  leaped  over  a  fence 
and  ran  fiercely  into  the  woods.  Well,  I  went  to  a 
town,  tricked  myself  out  in  new  clothes,  had  my  beard 
shaved  off,  and  was  ready  to  take  a  railway  train  and 
tip  glasses  with  some  other  scoundrel  when  I  was 
arrested.  I  said  I  was  suspected  of  the  crime,  and  that 
is  the  case,  for  that  blessed  old  farmer  was  not  certain 
that  I  was  the  man.  And  here  I  have  told  you  all 
about  it.  But  I  trust  you;  I  don't  know  why,  but 
I  do." 

The  candlewick  fell  and  the  cell  was  black.  Haines 
said  not  a  word.  I  heard  him  scramble  to  his  feet,  and 
then  with  a  sigh  he  lay  down  heavily  upon  his  bunk. 
And  so  long  a  silence  followed  that  I  thought  him 
asleep,  when  he  began  to  mutter  something  and  I  heard 
him  repeat  my  own  words :  "  A  trouble  aired  is  lighter 
for  the  airing." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  think  any  less  of  me,"  I  remarked. 

"  No,  I  am  sorry  for  you — sorry  that  your  better  self 
yielded.  But  don't  you  think  they  will  convict  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  afraid  so." 

"  And  if  they  do,  are  you  going  to  make  a  confes 
sion  ?  " 

"  No.     I  have  confessed  to  you,  and  that  was  cooling 


20  ODD  FOLKS. 

to  my  conscience.  There  is  bravado  in  confessing  to 
the  world,  but  confessing  to  a  friend  is  a  simple  virtue." 

I  listened  with  my  head  off  the  pillow,  and  he  mut 
tered  something,  but  I  did  not  understand  him. 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  am  glad  of,"  said  I. 

"What  is  that?" 

"  The  fact  that  I  have  no  near  relatives  to  be  dis 
graced." 

"  That's  fortunate,"  he  replied. 

I  waited  for  him  to  say  more,  but  he  was  silent, 
though  I  knew  that  he  was  not  asleep,  for  I  heard  him 
turn  over  time  and  again.  I  was  now  almost  out  of 
patience.  I  had  made  my  confession.  Why  didn't  he 
make  his  ?  I  felt  that  I  had  won  his  confidence  ;  I  knew 
that  he  admired  my  tastes,  because  they  agreed  with 
his  own.  I  had  given  to  him  the  most  pronounced  of 
all  flattery — I  imitated  his  accent  and  his  mannerisms. 
I  was  growing  weary  of  m^  contract.  Confinement 
was  telling  on  my  nerves.  Inwardly  I  cursed  the 
Superintendent  and  all  his  senseless  whims.  I  con 
demned  the  undertaking  as  a  foolish  experiment,  with 
out  the  possibility  of  a  compensating  result.  But  the 
Superintendent's  promise  came  back  to  me.  My  affairs 
had  been  running  behind  hand.  I  was  in  need  of 
money.  Yes,  I  would  stick  it  out.  Haines  began  to 
mutter. 

44 Talking  to  me?"  I  asked. 


THE  SUPERINTENDENTS  EXAMPLE.  21 

"No,  wasn't  saying  anything.  By  the  way— and 
you  please  pardon  me  for  such  a  question,  but  if  they 
should  send  you  to  the  penitentiary,  how  long  do  you 
suppose  it  would  be  for  ?  " 

"Not  so  loud,"  I  cautioned. 

"  There  are  no  other  prisoners  on  this  floor.  How 
long  do  you  suppose  it  would  be  for  ?  " 

"Ten  years  at  least." 

"That  long?  Terrible  to  think  of.  But  I  suppose 
robbery  is  different  from  theft  or  embezzlement.  After 
all,  if  a  man  goes  to  the  penitentiary  it  doesn't  make 
much  difference  for  how  long.  The  mere  sentence  is 
enough  to  break  his  heart." 

"Yes,  but  time  may  heal  a  broken  heart." 

"Not  time  done  in  a  penitentiary." 

Was  he  laughing  at  me  ?  I  listened,  and  I  thought 
I  heard  him  titter,  but  it  might  have  been  the  ripple  of 
a  suppressed  sob. 

"I  wonder  what  time  it  is?"  said  he,  turning  over 
wearily. 

"  Must  be  nearly  day.  You  seem  more  than  usually 
distressed." 

"I  am.  My  heart  has  been  growing  heavier  since 
you  told  me  your  story." 

"Don't  think  of  me,  my  dear  boy,  but  of  your 
self." 

"I  am  thinking  of  myself,  and  that's  what  makes  my 


22  ODD  FOLKS. 

heart  so  heavy."  For  a  few  moments  he  was  silent  and 
then  he  continued : 

"  And  you  say  there  is  a  sort  of  bravado  in  confess 
ing  to  the  world  ?  " 

"Yes;  and  the  church,  early  in  the  beginning,  rec 
ognized  in  man  the  yearning,  the  necessity  to  confers 
his  errors  to  an  individual.  In  my  case  religion  plays 
no  part.  I  told  you  of  my  depravity  and  my  heart  has 
become  lighter.  Suppose  we  go  to  sleep." 

"  I  can't,  Dick,  I  am  too  wretched.  And  now  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  something— but  it's  daylight,  and  our 
fat  friend  is  coming." 

CHAPTER  III. 

DURING  all  that  day  we  talked  in  closest  sympathy, 
but  I  was  afraid  to  remind  him  of  his  resolve  to  con 
fess.  Nor  did  he  refer  to  it;  indeed,  at  noontime, 
when  sunlight  fell  into  the  cell,  he  flipped  a  joke  at  our 
condition,  but  I  knew  that  this  was  broad-day  banter 
and  that  the  ghost  would  return  at  night. 

That  afternoon  his  sister  came  from  Louisville.  On 
a  chair,  brought  for  her  by  the  jailer's  wife,  she  sat  in 
side  the  cell,  and,  looking  at  her,  I  could  have  fancied 
that  she  was  a  part  of  the  noon  hour.  She  wept  at 
first,  but  she  grew  cheerful  when  I  assured  her  that  her 
brother  would  prove  his  innocence. 


THE  SUPERINTENDENT 3  EXAMPLE.  23 

44  Oh,  I  know  that,"  she  said  ;  "  but  think  of  what  a 
shame  it  is  to  keep  him  shut  up  here  so  long.  And  you 
haven't  done  anything,  either,  have  you  ?  I  don't  see 
what  makes  people  so  mean." 

She  remained  with  us  until  evening,  and  the  light 
was  surely  gone  when  she  went  away ;  and  the  hours 
were  slow  and  long  before  the  candle  was  put  above 
the  door.  But  the  old  fellow  came  with  it  after  a 
stretched-out  season.  "  Boys,"  he  said,  filling  the 
window  with  his  face,  "  I've  a  little  piece  of  news  for 
you.  The  grand  jury  met  to-day  and  court  will  be  in 
session  before  the  week's  out,  and,  consequently,  you'll 
have  a  hearin'  pretty  soon.  But  don't  git  skeered,  for 
the  foreman  of  the  jury  is  a  hoss  doctor,  and  the  Judge 
owns  a  livery  stable.  This  might  not  seem  to  make 
any  difference,  but  it  do,  for  I  want  to  tell  you  that  a 
feller  that  knows  how  to  handle  a  hoss  knows  how  to 
handle  a  man. 

44  Well,  I  must  leave  you  now,"  he  continued. 
41  Pardon  me  for  not  spendin'  more  time  with  you,  but 
they  keep  me  on  the  rush  these  days." 

He  was  gone  at  last.  Haines  was  pacing  the  floor. 
Would  he  wait  for  the  death  of  the  candle  ?  I  said 
nothing,  but  sat  on  my  bunk  waiting. 

44  The  candle  burns  longer  than  usual  to-night,"  he 
said.  He  was  waiting  for  the  darkness. 


24  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  Yes  ;  for  it  seems  to  know  that  we  are  sleepy,  and  it 
wants  to  tantalize  us." 

"  I'm  not  sleepy,"  he  replied  quickly.  He  sat  down. 
I  said  nothing.  "  I'm  not  sleepy— I  can't  sleep  until  I 
have  told  you  something.  I'm  going  to  throw  off  all 
reserve  and  talk  to  you  as  I  would  to  myself.  My 
father  is  cashier  of  a  bank.  He  is  one  of  the  most 
lovable  of  men,  but  he  is  weak,  always  itching  to  better 
his  condition  in  life,  living  in  the  midst  of  money,  daily 
noting  its  power,  counting  the  wealth  of  other  men. 
In  such  an  atmosphere  it  was  but  natural  that  he 
should  feel  the  clamp  placed  upon  him  by  a  moderate 
income.  He  had  a  brother,  much  older  than  himself, 
and  this  brother  was  slowly  dying.  The  brother  had 
mone}r,  say  110,000,  and  it  had  been  given  out  that  the 
larger  part  of  this  money  was  to  fall  to  my  father.  But 
the  brother  continued  to  linger,  though  his  hour  was 
surely  near.  Just  after  hearing,  one  day,  that  his 
brother  could  not  survive  another  night,  my  father  saw 
a  grand  opportunity  to  invest  $5,000.  The  return 
would  be  quick.  He  would  use  the  bank's  money,  and 
even  should  the  investment  fail,  he  could  soon  replace 
the  amount  from  his  brother's  estate.  The  investment 
was  made — and  lost — and  the  brother  grew  better.  In 
despair,  father  came  to  see  me.  I  thought  of  mother 
and  sister  when  I  told  him  that  I  would  risk  every 
thing  to  save  him.  In  the  express  office,  during  the 


THE  SUPERINTENDENT'S  EXAMPLE.  25 

tobacco  season,  there  was  constantly  a  large  amount  of 
money  in  the  company's  safe.  I  would  take  $5,000  and 
wait  for  the  brother  to  die.  Well,  I  took  that  amount, 
and  father  was  saved.  But  the  brother  continued  to 
improve.  And  it  was  drawing  near  the  time  when  I 
might  expect  a  call  from  the  company's  inspector.  I 
had  no  means  of  raising  the  money — I  was  not  in 
ventive — so  I  was  forced  to  resort  to  an  old  trick.  I 
blew  open  the  safe  and  knocked  myself  senseless  with 
an  iron  bar.  There  was  money  scattered  all  about  the 
room  when  the  town  officer  and  the  night  watchman 
rushed  in,  and  the  supposition  was  that  the  robbers 
were  too  much  frightened  to  gather  it  up  ;  arid  when 
an  investigation  was  made  it  was  discovered  that  but 
$5,000  was  missing.  And  the  day  after  I  was  arrested 
the  brother  died.  Father  came  heartbroken  to  see  me 
the  day  you  were  put  in  here,  and  his  plan  was  to  buy 
off  the  express  company,  but  I  urged  him  not  to  at 
tempt  it,  knowing  that  they  would  rather  send  a  man 
to  the  penitentiary  than  to  compromise  for  twice  that 
amount  of  money.  But  we  were  agreed  on  one  point 
— that  no  matter  what  was  done  with  me  the  money 
should  be  mysteriously  returned.  Father  and  yourself 
are  the  only  ones  that  know  the  truth.  Mother  and 
sister  will  always  believe  me  innocent.  I  have  one 
strong  hope,"  he  went  on  after  a  short  pause,  "  I  don't 
think  that  the  doctor  who  examined  me  is  over- 


26  ODD   FOLKS. 

scrupulous,  and,  if  worked  skillfully,  I  think  that  we 
might  buy  him.  You  see  I  am  determined  to  take  every 
advantage  that  a  thief's  shrewdness  can  suggest.  I 
may  deserve  to  go  to  the  penitentiarjr,  but  I  am  not 
enough  of  a  Christian  to  suffer  willingly.  There,  the 
candle's  gone." 

I  lay  down  to  think.  I  had  won  my  fight  and  my 
reward  was  sure. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  all  ?  "  he  asked  when  I  had 
thought  that  he  must  be  asleep. 

"A  sad  case,"  I  answered,  pitying  his  frailty.  The 
son  had  inherited  the  weakness  of  the  father. 

"  And  do  you  think  that  if  we  buy  the  doctor  they 
can  convict  me  ?  The  fact  is,  I  did  hit  myself  a  ter 
rific  blow." 

"They  will  if  they  can,"  I  answered. 

"  I  know  that.  Good-night,"  he  added,  "  I  think  I 
can  sleep  now." 

Long  before  day  I  was  up  and  dressed,  with  a  few 
words  scribbled  to  the  Superintendent,  asking  to  be  re 
leased  at  once ;  and  when  the  fat  jailer  came,  I  gave 
him  the  note. 

During  the  day  we  talked  of  books,  though  with  a 
lessened  interest  on  nry  part. 

"  You  don't  appear  to  be  well,"  he  said. 

"  Brooding  has  worn  my  spirits  away,"  I  answered. 

«  But  you  shouldn't  lose  hope.     Something  tells  me 


TEE  SUPERINTENDENT'S  EXAMPLE.  27 

that  before  long  we  shall  be  together,  free  and  happy, 
ready  to  serve  man  because  we  have  violated  his  laws. 
We  will  go  out  west  where  generosity  gilds  a  fault,  and 
live  a  buoyant  life.  And  now,  even  if  we  are  con 
demned,  let  us  promise  to  join  each  other  after  our  time 
is  served.  Will  you  promise  that  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Give  me  your  hand." 

We  shook  hands,  and  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
cell,  with  a  smile  parting  his  lips. 

"  I  think  more  of  you  than  any  fellow  I  ever  met, 
Dick.  In  fact,  you  are  the  only  real  companion  I  have 
ever  known.  You  stimulate  my  mind — make  me  feel 
that  I  can  do  good  in  the  world.  I  hope  they  won't 
separate  us — hope  that  if  they  send  us  to  prison  they 
will  send  us  together.  It  is  awful  to  be  companionless. 
Dick,  you  don't  look  well.  You  mustn't  get  sick,  but 
if  you  do  I'll  nurse  you — they  mustn't  take  you  out  of 
here." 

The  fat  jailer  appeared.  "  I  have  a  piece  of  news," 
he  said.  "  The  doctor  has  been  called  out  of  town  fora 
few  days,  and  the  grand  jury  will  skip  your  case, 
Haines,  until  he  comes  back.  So  you'll  have  a  few 
days  more  of  rest.  Saw  the  foreman  of  the  grand  jury, 
Haines,  and  I  told  him  to  treat  you  like  a  blooded  hoss, 
and  if  he  can  make  up  his  mind  to  do  that  you  are  all 
right.  But  I  haven't  got  such  good  ne-ws  for  you,"  he 


28  ODD  FOLKS. 

added,  speaking  to  me ;  and  Haines  wheeled  about  and 
looked  at  him. 

"What  about  me  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well,  they  are  goin'  to  take  you  over  into  Gasper 
County." 

"No!  "  Haines  cried,  grasping  my  arm. 

"  That's  the  orders,"  said  the  jailer.  "  I  told  them 
that  they'd  better  let  him  stay  a  little  longer  now  that 
he'd  got  so  well  acquainted  and  so  well  liked,  but  they 
'lowed,  they  did,  that  they  believed  not — said  that 
possibly  he  mout  come  agin  after  the  crops  was  laid 

by." 

"  Don't  tantalize  him,"  I  cried,  alarmed  at  the  poor 
fellow's  distress. 

"  Bless  you,  I  don't  want  to  worry  him.  Never  want 
to  pester  a  body.  Well,  come  on." 

Haines  gave  me  his  hand ;  his  lips  were  trembling. 
He  said  not  a  word,  but  as  I  passed  out  he  gave  me  a 
quick  look  and  then  turned  his  back  to  the  door.  As 
we  were  going  through  the  corridor  the  jailer  strove  to 
pump  me,  but  I  shut  him  up  and  went  my  way. 

Ah,  the  glory  of  the  sunshine  and  the  thrill  of  the 
sweet  air.  I  stood  near  a  garden  where  flowers  nodded, 
feeling  that  I  had  been  snatched  from  a  loathsome 
dream.  And  I  thought  of  that  poor  fellow  who  must 
pay  for  his  father's  greed.  How  harder  than  a  rock  is 
human  justice ;  but  he  must  be  just  or  man's  law  be- 


THE  SUPERINTENDENT'S  EXAMPLE.  29 

comes  a  laughable  failure.  I  turned  away,  toward  the 
railway  station,  and  the  sight  of  the  express  office 
smote  me  with  sadness.  "Poor,  loyal,  and  generous 
fool,"  I  said. 

The  train  came.  And  the  wheels  kept  repeating 
something — they  always  do.  And  what  was  it  ?  "  Re 
member  your  promise,  remember  your  promise."  Yes, 
I  would  remember  it. 

I  had  accomplished  my  mission  and  now  for  the  re 
ward. 

The  Superintendent  was  in  his  office  waiting  for  me 
that  evening.  A  check  book  lay  in  front  of  him. 

"Ah,  Captain,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  And  what  do 
you  say  ?  " 

And  instantly  I  replied  :  "  The  man  is  innocent. 
Turn  him  out." 

He  gave  me  a  blank  look  and  shoved  the  check  book 
from  him. 

"  Innocent ! " 

"  As  a  lamb.     Turn  him  out." 

I  stalked  away,  poor,  but  with  a  smile  in  my  heart. 
I  was  a  liar,  but  I  was  a  man. 

The  money  was  mysteriously  returned.  Haines 
found  the  success  lying  down  the  road,  waiting,  and  he 
found  it  before  it  had  gathered  rust.  He  is  an  evan 
gelist,  telling  his  story  to  the  world  ;  and  his  sister — 
she's  my  wife. 


THE  BRICK  OFFICE. 


IN  the  old  and  remote  village  of  Eddex  stood  a 
small  brick  building.  Formerly  it  had  been  the  law 
office  of  Judge  Branham,  remembered  as  a  man  of  great 
learning  and  ability.  And  during  the  years  that  fol 
lowed  his  death  an  old  Justice  of  the  Peace  was  wont 
to  say,  "Who  will  have  the  audacity  to  hang  a  lawyer's 
sign  in  front  of  the  Judge's  temple  of  wisdom  ?  "  This 
remark  was  repeated  until  every  man  in  the  village 
claimed  it — the  green  grocer  and  the  cobbler.  Finally, 
it  was  agreed  that  no  one  should  summon  the  senseless 
courage — this  was  the  way  it  was  put  in  the  village — 
to  occupy  the  little,  dingy  den  once  so  nearly  filled  by 
the  fat  jurist. 

The  old  tin  sign  hung  there  until  it  was  blown  away 
during  a  summer  hail-storm,  and  after  that  the  battered 
post  stood  holding  out  its  naked  arm.  The  property 
changed  hands,  but  the  office  remained  vacant.  In  the 
columns  of  the  village  newspaper  it  was  offered  for 
rent,  and  the  young  lawyers,  taught  to  revere  the  great, 

sniffed  at  the   announcement.     But  one  morning  the 
(30) 


THE  BRICK  OFFICE.  31 

villagers  were  startled  to  see  a  new  sign  swinging  from 
the  old  arm.  "  A.  C.  Jonnett,  Attorney-at-law,"  in 
blight  green  letters,  was  plain  to  every  gaze,  and,  of 
course,  an  insult  to  the  memory  held  warmly  dear. 

"It  is  an  outrage  !  "  declared  the  old  Justice,  having 
hastily  arrived  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  "  It  is  intended  a$ 
an  insult,  and  ought  to  be  pulled  down.  Why,  I've 
lived  in  this  town  sixty-odd  years  this  spring,  and  I 
never  saw  the  like  before.  Hop  up  there,  some  of  you, 
and  pull  off  that  tin  blasphemy." 

"  Hold  on,"  interposed  the  Mayor.  "  Let  us  proceed 
with  more  deliberation.  Of  course,  this  office  is  sacred 
to  us,  but  it  is  now  owned  by  a  comparative  stranger, 
and  has  doubtless  been  rented  by  a  stranger.  And, 
surely,  when  we  have  had  a  talk  with  him  he  will  be 
willing  to  move  to  some  other  place.  Go  slow,  boys. 
See  who  is  inside." 

A  young  fellow  made  the  announcement  that  the 
office  was  locked. 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  Justice,  "  his  conscience  has  smitten 
him  and  he  has  sneaked  off.  But  you  are  right,  Mr. 
Mayor.  It  is  better  to  proceed  with  deliberation." 

Just  at  that  moment  the  tavern  bell  rang  for  break 
fast.  No  matter  what  the  people  of  a  remote  village 
may  be  doing,  or  what  question  the  wise  and  ancient 
heads  of  the  municipality  may  be  discussing,  the  ring 
ing  of  the  tavern  bell  calls  an  instant  halt.  It  is  the 


32  ODD  FOLKS. 

voice  announcing  the  crawl  rather  than  the  flight  of 
time,  and  in  a  village  the  fact  that  one  hour  has  suc 
ceeded  another  hour  is  a  great  thing  to  know. 

The  Justice  and  the  Mayor  went  home  to  breakfast, 
and  afterward,  when  they  returned  to  renew  their  in 
vestigations,  they  found  the  office  open.  The  Mayor 
was  the  first  to  enter;  and  he  had  advanced  but  a  few 
feet  beyond  the  threshold  when  he  staggered  back 
against  the  Justice,  close  upon  his  heels.  And  then  the 
two  men  stood  gaping  in  astonishment.  At  the  desk 
sat  a  handsome  young  woman. 

"We — we  are  looking  for  A.  C.  Jonnett,"  the  Mayor 
stammered. 

"I  am  that  person,"  replied  the  young  woman,  ris 
ing,  and  sweetly  smiling. 

"  What !  "  the  Justice  gasped.  "  You  don't  mean  to 
say  that  you  are  a  lawyer?  " 

"  I  don't  only  mean  to  say  it,  I  do  say  it." 

"  But  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing !" 

"  Perhaps  not ;  and  there  are  doubtless  many  other 
things  you  never  heard  of." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  miss.  But  there  are  a 
great  many  things  I  have  heard  of,  and  one  of  them  is 
an  honored  Judge  whose  memory  - 

"  That  will  do,"  she  interrupted,  raising  her  hand. 
"  I  have  heard  of  the  Judge,  and  I  respect  his  memory 
far  more  than  you  do.  I  have  read  his  books  and  ad- 


THE  BRICK  OFFICE.  33 

mire  the  keenness  of  his  mind.  Have  you  read  his  book 
on  the  fallacies  of  circumstantial  evidence?  " 

"  Didn't  know  he  wrote  one." 

"  I  thought  not.  Did  you  wish  to  see  me  on  any 
other  business  ?  " 

"I  believe  not,"  said  the  Mayor.  He  turned  toward 
the  door,  his  friend  moving  with  him,  but  halted,  faced 
about,  and  said : 

"  You  surely  don't  mean  that  you  are  going  to  prac 
tice  law  in  this  town  ?  " 

"Yes;  that's  my  business." 

"But  the  people  here  never  heard  of  such  a  thing 
as  a  woman  lawyer,  and  you  might  stay  here  for  forty 
years  and  never  get  a  case." 

"  Well,  I'll  try  it  forty  years,  and  at  the  end  of 
that  time  I  may  be  able  to  decide  whether  or  not  to 
settle  here  permanently." 

"  Gosh  !  but  you've  got  nerve." 

And  laughing  at  him,  she  replied : 

"Gosh  !  I  need  it." 

"  I  reckon  you  do.  But,"  he  added,  giving  his  com 
panion  an  odd  wink,  "  even  if  it  was  common  for  wo 
men  to  practice  at  the  bar  you  are  too  pretty  for  a 
lawyer." 

"  I  have  seen  better  looking  criminals  than  lawyers," 
she  replied,  smiling. 

The  two  men  strode  away.     The  report  that  the  new 


34  ODD   FOLKS. 

lawyer  was  a  woman  was  spread  about,  and  so  large  a 
crowd  was  soon  collected  about  her  door  that  the  young 
woman  closed  her  establishment  and  went  to  the  tavern. 
The  proprietor  apologized  to  her  for  the  ill-behavior  of 
his  town,  and  on  the  way  to  her  room  she  halted  long 
enough  to  say  :  "  O,  the  novelty  will  wear  out  by  the 
time  I'm  elected  prosecuting  attorney  for  this  district." 
And  the  landlord,  grinning  as  he  passed  on,  said  he 
reckoned  it  "  mout  "  a  good  while  before  that  time. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  The  new  lawyer  went 
to  church,  to  be  stared  at,  and  preached  at.  She  sat 
far  back  toward  the  door,  and  the  hemming  and  hawing 
of  the  minister  were  testimony  of  the  annoyance  he 
felt  at  beholding  the  honored  members  of  his  flock 
twisting  their  necks  to  gaze  at  the  astounding  novelty, 
a  female  barrister.  She  conducted  herself  with  simple 
dignity,  paying  respectful  attention  to  the  sermon,  and 
when  the  services  were  done  she  walked  straightway 
to  the  hotel.  About  the  church  door  a  crowd  gathered 
to  discuss  her,  and  in  the  midst  of  this  idle  assembly 
stood  the  old  Justice  of  the  Peace.  He  was  more  than 
honestly  worried — he  was  sorely  distressed.  His  im 
portance  had  long  hung  upon  his  reminiscences  of  the 
old  Judge,  and  by  common  consent  he  had  taken  charge 
of  the  great  man's  memory,  sole  executor  of  the  es 
tate,  bonds  and  mortgages  of  recollection — and  thus  to 
be  intruded  upon  was  a  fetching  blow.  If  the  intruder 


THE  BRICK  OFFICE.  35 

were  only  a  man,  come  with  the  defiance  of  a  man's 
J  strength,  procedure  would  be  clear  ;  but,  instead,  he 
was  confronted  by  a  young  and  winsome  woman. 
However,  his  duty  lay  before  him,  like  a  straight  path, 
and  he  had  but  one  course  to  pursue.  He  would  make 
it  so  unpleasant  for  the  woman  that  she  would  soon  va 
cate  the  old  office,  if  not  the  town.  The  Circuit  Judge 
was  his  friend,  and  that  morning  they  held  a  long  con 
ference  ;  and  now,  as  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  that 
idle  throng,  bare  of  his  hat,  with  the  sun  beating  upon 
his  ancient  head,  he  looked  about  him  until  his  eyes 
fell  upon  the  Mayor's  face,  and  then  he  said  : 

"  Speakin'  in  the  nature  of  a  parable,  I  may  say  that 
there  is  more  ways  than  one  of  killin'  a  dog  when  you 
ain't  got  a  rope  to  hang  him  with.  And  I  want  it  un 
derstood  that  I  don't  mean  nothin'  personal,  and,  fur 
thermore,  that  there  ain't  a  man  in  all  this  community 
that's  fonder  of  ladies'  society  than  I  am.  Do  you  fol- 
ler  me  ?  "  he  added,  nodding  at  the  Mayor. 

"Bumpin'  up  agin  your  heels,"  the  Mayor  an 
swered. 

"  I  thought  so.  No,  sir ;  you  might  git  on  a  pert 
hoss  and  ride  all  day  and  not  find  a  man  that  likes  the 
ladies  better  than  I  do.  And  the  fact  that  I  have  been 
married  three  times  is  proof  of  the  fact.  Now,  I  know 
that  you  gentlemen  are  all  interested  in  what  I'm 
doin',  so  I'll  keep  no  secrets  from  you.  I  went  over  to 


36  ODD  FOLKS. 

see  the  Circuit  Judge  this  mornin',  and  he  tells  me  that 
the  young  woman  has  got  the  right  to  practice  in  his 
court,  and  worse  than  that,  she  can't  by  any  due  proc 
ess  of  law  be  got  out  of  the  brick  office ;  but  there  is  a 
recourse.  The  Judge  don't  like  the  idea  of  a  woman 
practicin'  law,  and — well,  in  fact,  he'll  make  it  in- 
terestin'  for  her  from  the  very  jump.  Court  opens  to 
morrow  mornin',  and  I  want  all  you  gentlemen  to  be 
there." 

When  court  assembled  the  next  day  Attorney  Jon- 
nett,  duly  enrolled,  took  her  seat  with  the  other  law 
yers  ;  and  when  the  Judge,  following  the  usual  polite 
custom,  asked  the  members  of  the  bar,  one  by  one,  if 
they  had  any  motion  to  make,  A.  C.  Jonnett,  in  a  sweet 
voice,  answered :  "  No  motion,  your  Honor." 

A  few  unimportant  cases  were  taken  up  and  set 
aside,  and  then  work  on  the  criminal  docket  was  begun. 
The  first  case  was  that  of  a  young  man  named  Elliott. 
He  had  been  indicted  on  a  charge  of  stealing  $20.  He 
was  tall,  pale,  nervous,  with  an  intellectual  expression 
of  countenance.  He  was  a  stranger,  had  not  been  able 
to  give  bond,  and  for  more  than  two  months  he  had 
lain  in  jail ;  and  now,  as  he  had  not  the  money  where 
with  to  employ  counsel,  it  was  the  Judge's  duty  to  ap 
point  a  lawyer  to  defend  him.  He  was  guilty,  of 
course,  and  such  an  appointment  was  a  genial  farce, 
but  it  was  the  law.  The  Judge  looked  about  until  his 


THE  BRICK  OFFICE.  37 

stern  eye  rested  upon  Attorney  Jonnett.  His  look 
was  interpreted,  and  a  titter  went  about  the  room. 
The  young  woman  blushed  slightly,  and  the  old  Jus 
tice,  nudging  the  Mayor,  whispered : 

"  This  here  is  the  beginnin'  of  her  embarrassment  in 
this  town.  I  like  the  ladies'  society,  understand — " 

"  We  must  have  silence !  "  the  Judge  demanded  : 
then  he  appointed  Agnes  C.  Jonnett  to  defend  the 
prisoner. 

Now  there  was  no  red  of  confusion  on  her  face.  She 
was  pale  and  courageous.  She  went  over  to  the  pris 
oner  and  sat  down  beside  him ;  she  went  to  the  hotel- 
keeper,  and  shortly  afterward  had  the  defendant's  bond 
fixed.  She  announced  that  the  defense  was  not  ready 
for  trial,  and  was  given  three  days  for  preparation. 
During  that  time  she  worked  day  and  night,  and  when 
the  case  was  called  she  was  ready.  Her  examination 
of  the  witnesses  was  sharp,  and  the  prosecuting  attor 
ney  gave  her  many  a  look  of  antagonistic  admiration. 
Finally,  the  argument  was  begun,  and  then  she  sur 
prised  the  court.  Her  command  of  language  was  ex 
quisite  ;  she  was  impassioned,  and  upon  a  backwoods 
jury  passion  falls  with  the  grace  of  a  gospel.  She 
wrung  tears  from  the  eyes  of  those  rough  but  soft 
hearted  men ;  she  threw  upon  them  a  hypnotic  spell  of 
pathos ;  she  convinced  them  that  the  young  man  was 
innocent,  and  a  verdict  of  not  guilty  was  brought  in. 


38  ODD  FOLKS. 

The  tavern  bell  was  ringing  as  she  left  the  courtroom. 
Some  one  spoke  to  her.  She  looked  up  and  recognized 
the  old  Justice. 

"Miss,  I  reckon  I  am  about  as  good  a  critic  as  you'd 
find  in  a  day's  ride — mout  ride  a  pert  hoss  from  sun  to 
sun  and  not  find  a  keener  one — and  I  want  to  say  that 
you  made  as  good  a  speech  as  I  ever  heard." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir." 

"  O,  not  at  all.  You  proved  that  young  fellow's  in 
nocence  beyond  a  doubt ;  and  he  can  settle  right  down 
and  live  here  if  he  wants  to." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  she  replied,  walk 
ing  along  with  him.  «  At  first  I  thought  him  guilty, 
but  now  I  know  he  is  not.  And,  by  the  way,  he  is  go 
ing  to  settle  down  here.  He  is  a  doctor." 

"You  don't  say  so?  He  didn't  look  it.  But  when 
a  man  gets  down  in  the  world,  and  lays  in  jail  awhile, 
he  don't  look  much  of  anything.  Fust  thing  we 
knowed  of  him  he  was  pokin'  round  here  like  he  was 
sorter  daft.  By  the  way,"  he  added,  halting  at  the 
corner  of  the  street,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  not  to  give 
yourself  no  uneasiness  about  that  brick  office.  You 
may  stay  there  as  long  as  you  want  to.  I've  done  my 
duty  by  the  old  Judge,  and  that's  all  anybody  can  do." 

Elliott  began  the  practice  of  medicine.  He  had  been 
graduated  from  a  well-known  institution,  and  was 
really  a  skillful  physician.  But  concerning  himself  he 


THE  BRICK  OFFICE.  39 

was  strangely  silent.  One  day  he  successfully  per 
formed  a  startling  surgical  operation  and  the  country 
side  rang  with  his  name.  Every  day  his  buggy  was 
stopped  in  front  of  the  little  brick  office,  and  a  smile 
always  welcomed  him.  He  called  one  night  when 
Agnes  was  late  at  work.  That  day  his  buggy  had  not 
stopped,  and  laughingly  he  said  he  had  called  to  ex 
plain. 

"Look  here,"  he  broke  out,  taking  a  seat  near  her 
desk,  "do  you  know  that  this  is  our  anniversary  ?  " 

"  Our  anniversary  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  One  year  ago  to-day  you  saved  me  from  prison." 

"  O  !  "  was  all  she  said,  looking  down. 

"  And  now,  looking  back,  it  seems  that  I  never  lived 
until  then — I  was  born  that  day,  for  with  your  smile 
came  the  sweet  breath  of  life." 

"Flatterer!  "  she  said. 

"No,  a  rare  example — gratitude."  She  looked  at 
him,  and  in  her  glance  was  a  thrilling  question. 
"  More  than  gratitude,"  he  hastened  to  say. 

"  What  can  be  more  than  gratitude  ?  " 

"Love,"  he  answered. 


A  soft  wind  came  out  of  the  woods,  and  the  tin  sign 
swung  on  the  old  arm  of  the  post.     They  stood  by  the 


40  ODD  FOLKS. 

desk,  and  his  arm  was  about  her.     Suddenly  he  took  it 
away,  stepped  back,  and  folded  his  arms. 

"  Agnes,  I  have  made  a  sweet  confession,  and  now  I 
must  make  a  bitter  one.  I  was  guilty." 

"  What  ?  "  she  cried,  drawing  back. 

"Listen  to  me.  I  stole  the  $20.  I  came  here  a 
vagabond,  not  knowing  whither  I  went— a  victim  of 
morphine.  I  was  moneyless.  All  night  I  raved.  I 
thought  I  should  go  mad  ;  I  was  mad,  and  at  morning 
I  stole  the  money  and  ran  away  to  get  the  drug.  I 
got  it,  and  then  the  awful  sense  of  my  crime  came  upon 
me,  and  when  they  found  me  I  was  in  a  fence  corner 
praying,  with  my  mother's  voice  throbbing  in  my  ears. 
They  took  me  to  jail,  and  there,  with  the  determination 
of  one  inspired,  I  lessened  my  allowance  of  morphine 
until  I  cured  myself.  Yes,  I  cured  my  body,  and  in 
the  sight  of  God  you  cured  my  soul.  Long  ago  I  re 
funded  three  times  the  amount  of  the  theft sent  it 

anonymously.     And  now,  Agnes " 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  him. 


THE  GREEK  GOD  BARBER. 


BOCAGE  and  a  friend  went  into  a  barber  shop,  and 
when  they  came  out,  Bocage  remarked :  "  Those  bar 
bers  in  there  are  about  as  distinguished  looking  a  set 
of  fellows  as  I  ever  saw.  The  one  that  shaved  you 
might  easily  be  taken  for  a  United  States  Senator, 
while  the  one  who  condescended  to  accommodate  me 
could  serve  as  a  faultless  model  for  a  Greek  god.  I 
think  that  if  I  had  a  jury  composed  of  such  material,  I 
could  make  a  speech  that  would  charm  back  to  rosy 
life  the  long  cold  and  dusty  ear  of  Cicero." 

"  Bocage,"  said  the  friend,  "  for  a  man  who  hopes  to 
make  his  living  by  the  laying  down  of  dull  law,  you 
are  the  silliest  sentimentalist  I  have  ever  seen.  I  laid 
a  wager  some  time  ago  that  a  sudden  outcropping  of 
this  trait  would  one  day  get  you  in  trouble.  You  can't 
go  even  into  a  barber  shop,  the  place,  perhaps,  for  sar 
casm,  but  never  for  sentiment,  without  having  your 
fancy  aroused." 

"Perhaps  I  should  have  been  a  poet,"  Bocage  an 
swered,  dodging  a  cab. 

"  But  don't  you  think  that  selling  flowers  instead  of 

(41) 


42  ODD  FOLKS. 

trying  to  give  them  voice,  lies  closer  to  the  scope  of 
your  abilities  ?  " 

"  That's  all  right,  old  fellow,  you  may  guy  me  as 
much  as  you  please,  but  you  can  not  alter  the  fact  that 
the  man  who  shaved  me  looks  like  a  Greek  god;  and 
how  easy  it  would  be  for  him,  although  he  may  be  as 
ignorant  as  a  guinea-pig,  to  go  to  some  fashionable 
watering  place  and  pass  himself  off  as  a  distinguished 
personage,  marry  the  handsomest  girl  in  the  country. 
Well,  I  must  leave  you  here." 

"  Going  out  of  town,  are  you?" 

"  Yes,  going  to  Lake  Minnetonka  for  a  few  weeks." 


The  evening  was  charming.  The  air  was  as  soft  as 
a  whispered  sentiment.  Music,  refined  into  an  echo, 
floated  across  the  lake ;  well-dressed  men  and  fashion 
able  women  promenaded  on  the  long  veranda  of  a 
summer  hotel.  Bocage  had  smoked  himself  into  senti- 
mental  listlessness  and  was  sitting  apart  from  the  slowly 
moving  throng.  Suddenly  he  became  wide  awake.  A 
beautiful  girl,  on  the  arm  of  a  Greek  god  model,  passed 
him. 

"  There's  my  barber,"  he  said  to  himself.  « I  will 
watch  him,  and  when  the  proper  time  comes,  I  will 
send  him  back  to  his  shop.  I  have  been  here  two 
weeks  and  no  one  has  paid  any  particular  attention  to 


THE  GREEK  GOD   BARBER.  43 

me,  but  here  comes  a  barber  and  becomes  at  once  a 
champion  of  beauty.  I  will  follow  the  fellow." 

He  followed  along  with  well-disguised  aimlessness, 
until  he  met  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel.  "Captain," 
said  he,  "  who  is  that  nice  looking  man  walking  with 
that  beautiful  girl  ?" 

The  captain,  after  looking  a  moment,  asked,  "Do  you 
mean  that  tall,  young  fellow  and  blondish  girl  ? 

"Yes." 

"  Why,  he  is  a  Mr.  Stockbridge,  of  Lexington,  Ken 
tucky,  and  she  is  Miss  Ambridge,  of  Baltimore." 

"  I  wonder  if  they  have  known  each  other  long." 

"  That  I  can't  say.  I  believe,  however,  that  they 
met  for  the  first  time  several  nights  ago." 

"  I  should  like  to  be  presented." 

"  Well,  that  can  be  arranged  easily  enough.  Yonder 
is  her  father.  I'll  introduce  you  to  him." 

Bocage  was  presented  to  Mr.  Ambridge,  and  found 
him  to  be  an  exceedingly  pleasant  old  gentleman,  with 
a  remarkably  unworldly  air. 

"  May  I  ask  what  business  you  are  engaged  in  ?  " 
Bocage  asked. 

"  Your  question  is  perfectly  proper,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  noticing  that  his  new  acquaintance  was 
slightly  embarrassed.  "I  am  not  really  in  any  busi 
ness,  being  the  rector  of  one  of  the  leading  churches  of 
our  city.  I  have  come  hither  for  rest,  having  done 


44  ODD  FOLKS. 

much  labor  of  late.  This  is  my  first  visit  to  this  de 
lightful  spot,  having  hitherto  spent  my  vacations  at  the 
seaside." 

"Did  you  come  alone?" 

"No,  my  daughter  is  with  me.  She  has  just  re 
turned  from  Home,  whither  she  went  to  study  art ;  not 
that  she  purposes  to  follow  painting  as  a  means  of  live 
lihood,  but  to  indulge  the  longing  of  the  purest  of  all 
sentiment.  She  is  coming  now." 

"  That — er — excuse  me — but  that  handsome  lady 
with  the  tall  young  man  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"A  friend  of  the  family,  I  suppose." 

"  Well,  no.     A  comparatively  new  acquaintance." 

"I  should  like  to  be  presented.  Of  course,  I  am  a 
stranger  to  you,  but  the  proprietor  of  this  hotel,  a  man, 
as  you  doubtless  know,  of  eminent  respectability,  will 
vouch  for  my  standing." 

Bocage  was  presented ;  the  barber  scanned  him  closely. 
Bocage  felt  the  blood  of  triumph  surging  through  his 
veins.  He  would  let  the  fellow  play  awhile,  and  then 
he  would  reel  him  in.  After  dinner  Bocage  sought 
Stockbridge  and  asked  him  if  he  would  not  take  a 
stroll.  Stockbridge  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  said 
that  he  would.  They  walked  along  the  beach. 

"Where  are  you  from,  Mr.  Stockbridge?" 

"  Kentucky." 


THE  GREEK  GOD  BARBER.  45 

"  Have  you  lived  there  long  ?  " 

"  I  was  born  there,  but  I  have  been  away  so  much 
that  I  know  but  little  of  the  State." 

"  Foreign  travel  ?  "  Bocage  asked. 

Stockbridge  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  replied : 

"  No,  not  exactly,  although  I  have  been  in  Mexico  a 
good  deal." 

"  You  are  pretty  well  acquainted  with  our  own 
country,  I  should  think." 

"  Well,  no,  I  can't  say  that  I  am." 

"  You  have  been  in  Chicago,  I  presume." 

"  Why  do  you  presume  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  except  that  nearly  every  Ameri 
can  visits  Chicago  sooner  or  later." 

"  I  have  been  in  Chicago." 

"  Yes,  I'll  bet  you  have,"  Bocage  mused. 

"  But  it  is  too  rushing  for  my  nerves,"  Stockbridge 
continued. 

"  Yes,  it  is  rushing,  but  it  has  many  advantages  over 
a  quieter  place.  Our  hotels  are  great,  and  it  is  said 
that  our  barber  shops  can't  be  beaten." 

u  Suppose  we  return  to  the  hotel,"  said  Stockbridge. 
"  I  have  an  engagement." 

They  returned  to  the  hotel.  /'Bocage  went  to  his 
room,  and  when  he  came  down  he  saw  the  barber  and 
Miss  Ambridge  sitting  on  the  veranda.  He  joined 
them,  expressing  a  hope  that  he  did  not  intrude. 


46  ODD  FOLKS. 

"Oh,  not  in  the  least,"  said  the  young  lady.  "I 
have  just  been  trying  to  convince  Mr.  Stockbridge  that 
he  ought  to  read  Arnold's  'Light  of  the  World,'  and  I 
trust  that  you  will  come  to  my  assistance." 

"  As  a  man  of  taste,  he  should  read  that  great  work," 
Bocage  answered.  He  had  never  read  it  —  had 
merely  glanced  at  its  skeleton  printed  in  a  newspaper. 
"I  am  very  fond  of  it,"  he  continued,  "  and  think  that 
it  is  really  better  than  the  «  Light  of  Asia.'  " 

"  I  can  hardly  agree  with  you  there,"  said  Miss  Am- 
briclge.  "  The  '  Light  of  Asia  '  being  more  paganish  is, 
to  my  mind,  more  poetic.  Christianity  has  not  im 
proved  poetry,  although  it  has  blessed  the  world. 
Poetry,  in  its  truest  and  sublimest  sense,  is  the  light  of 
the  dawn,  and  not  the  glare  of  noontide.  Do  you  agree 
with  me,  Mr.  Stockbridge  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  much  about  it ;  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  never  read  much  poetry,  except  in  the  news 
papers.  I  like  a  good  book,  such  as  '  Allen  Quarter- 
main.'" 

"  Oh,  no,"  cried  the  girl ;  "  say  «  Lorna  Doone.'  " 

"  I  never  read  that." 

"  Then  you  have  missed  the  sweetest  novel  in  the 
English  language,"  said  Bocage,  who  had  struggled  up 
to  the  great  snow-storm  and  had  then  put  down  the 
book  and  taken  up  "  She." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  Stockbridge  re- 


THE  GREEK  GOD  BARBER.  47 

plied.  ",I  reckon  a  man  reads  the  books  that  suit  him 
best,  and  I  guess  his  taste  in  reading  is  pretty  much  the 
same  as  it  is  in  music.  He  likes  what  he  does  like  and 
that's  about  all  there  is  to  it." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Bocage.  "  Take  opera,  for  in 
stance.  Some  people  like  one  opera  and  some  another. 
One  man  will  go  into  ecstasies  over  ;  Otello,'  while 
another  is  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  'Barber  of 
Seville.' " 

"  Will  you  please  excuse  me  a  moment  ? "  Stock- 
bridge  asked,  rising. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl ;  "  but  you  won't  stay  long,  will 
you?" 

"  No,  not  long." 

"Isn't  he  grand  and  delightful?"  she  remarked, 
when  the  barber,  not  of  Seville,  but  of  Chicago,  had 
withdrawn. 

"  Yes,"  said  Bocage,  "  he  is  a  very  nice-looking  man ; 
rather  neat,  too." 

"Neat  doesn't  express  it,"  the  girl  replied,  "he  is  so 
noble-looking." 

"  What  business  is  he  engaged  in  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  he  is  in  any  business,  but 
his  father  is  the  owner  of  a  fine  blue-grass  farm  and  has 
many  blooded  horses,  I  understand." 

"  Did  he  say  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  or  I  should  not  have  known  it." 


48  ODD  FOLKS. 

li  Humph,"  Bocage  grunted. 

"  But  do  you  doubt  it,  Mr.  Bocage  ?  " 

"  Suppose  I  should  say  that  I  have  reason  for  doubt 
ing  it?" 

"  Oh,  but  I  don't  see  how  you  can  have  reason  for 
saying  so.  He  has  conducted  himself  as  a  perfect  gen 
tleman  ever  since  I  met  him  and  I  have  no  cause  for 
doubting  his  word." 

"  He  has  conducted  himself  as  a  gentleman  so  far  as 
I  know,  and  yet  I  have  cause  to  doubt  his  word.  Now, 
I  am  going  to  say  something  for  your  own  good.  I  saw 
you  with  that  man  and  I  was  at  once  interested  in  your 
behalf  and  was  determined  to  warn  you.  Mind  you,  I 
shall  say  nothing  against  the  man's  calling,  for  it  is  a 
necessary  one,  but  I  despise  his  pretense.  He  is  simply 
a  Chicago  barber." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Bocage,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your 
self." 

"  I  am  telling  the  truth.  He  works  in  a  Dearborn 
street  shop  and  shaved  me  the  day  I  left  Chicago. 
He's  coming  back.  I  must  bid  you  good-night." 

The  next  morning  when  Bocage  came  down,  Stock- 
bridge  was  waiting  for  him.  "  Let  me  see  you  a  mo 
ment,"  said  the  barber. 

"  Am  I  next  ?  "  Bocage  sarcastically  asked. 

44  You  are  next  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.     What 


THE  GREEK  GOD  BARBER.  49 

have  you  been  telling  Miss  Ambriclge  about  me?" 
Stockbridge  asked,  drawing  Bocage  aside. 

"  I  suppose  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  for  she  told  me.  You  say  that  I  am 
a  Chicago  barber." 

"  And  I  acknowledge  that  you  are  a  good  one.  I 
don't  care  how  much  you  enjoy  yourself  or  how  high 
you  aspire,  but  I  despise  pretense.  If  you  had  come 
here  without  any  disguise,  I  should  have — well,  I 
haven't  time  to  talk  to  you." 

"But  I  have  time  to  talk  and  to  act  unless  you  make 
proper  amends.  You  must  go  to  that  young  lady  and 
tell  her  that  you  are  a  liar." 

"  Mind  how  you  talk,  or  I  shall  not  be  responsible 
for  my  action.  Tell  her  that  I  am  a  liar,  indeed,  when 
I  couldn't  even  tell  her  that  I  was  mistaken.  You 
know,  as  well  as  you  know  anything,  that  you  shaved 
me  not  long  ago." 

"I  will  give  you  until  noon  to  apologize  to  that 
lady." 

"  Why  apologize  to  her  ?  I  have  said  nothing  about 
her." 

44  No  matter,  you  have  slandered  her  future  husband." 

4'  Now,  look  here,"  said  Bocage,  44you  can't  bluff  me. 
I  won't  have  it.  If  the  girl  is  a  mind  to  marry  you  af 
ter  what  I  have  said,  all  right." 

44  Even  if  I  had  shaved  you " 

4 


50  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  Which  you  did." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  you  think  that  you  have  acted  the 
part  of  a  coward  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  I  have  acted  the  part  of  a  man  in  ex 
posing  a  fellow  who  is  seeking  to  deceive  a  trusting  girl." 

"  All  right.  Do  you  think,  though,  that  you  will 
be  ready  by  noon  to  acknowledge  to  Miss  Ambridge 
that  you  are  a  liar  ?  " 

"  I  am  as  ready  now  as  I  shall  ever  be." 

"  I  will  give  you  until  noon." 

"  By  noon,"  said  Bocage,  as  he  strode  off,  "  he  will 
be  gone.  I  rather  like  his  gall.  Why,  helloa,  judge  !  " 
he  suddenly  exclaimed,  springing  forward  and  seizing 
the  hand  of  an  elderly-looking  gentleman.  "  When  did 
you  arrive  ?  " 

"  Just  now." 

"  How's  everything  in  Louisville  ?  " 

"  Oh,  moving  along  smoothly.  I  am  looking  for 
Louis  Stockbridge,  of  Lexington." 

4<  Ah,  have  you  met  him  ?  " 

"  Not  since  I  came  here,  but  I  have  known  him  a  long 
time — his  father  is  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

"  Can  it  be  possible  ! "  Bocage  exclaimed. 

"  It  must  be  possible  when  it  is  already  a  fact. 
What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  I  took  that  man  Stockbridge  to  be  a 
Chicago  barber." 


THE  GREEK  GOD  BARBER.  51 

"  You'd  better  not  tell  him  so." 

"  But  I  have  told  him  so  and  he  has  given  me  until 
noon  to  apologize  to— to— the  young  lady.  It  is  all 
mixed  up." 

"  Well,  then,  you'd  better  straighten  it  out  by  making 
the  amplest  apology  within  the  range  of  retraction's 
most  persuasive  language." 

"  I  must  be  a  fool.  By  George  !  I  would  have  sworn 
that  he  was  a  barber.  Yonder  he  comes.  I  don't  like 
to  apologize  here,  unless  I  can  do  it  quietly.  There  are 
too  many  people  looking." 

Stockbridge  and  the  judge  cordially  greeted  each 
other  and  then  Bocage  stepped  up.  "  My  dear  sir," 
said  he,  "  I  have  made  an  egregious  blunder " 

"  I  think  so,"  replied  Stockbridge,  "  and  I  have  de 
cided  not  to  give  you  until  noon,"  and,  wheeling 
Bocage  about,  he  kicked  him  off  the  veranda. 

*****  # 

The  next  day  while  Bocage  was  walking  along  Dear 
born  street,  he  glanced  into  a  barber  shop  and  saw  a 
man  that  looked  like  a  Greek  god  rubbing  the  swollen 
head  of  a  drunken  Swede. 


UGLY  RACHEL. 


IN  the  Cumberland  mountains,  near  a  much-traveled 
road,  and  not  far  from  a  stream  that  seemed  to  exist  in 
a  succession  of  accidental  tumblings,  there  once  lived 
an  old  man  who  held  natural  claims  to  local  distinction, 
but  who  was  chiefly  known  for  one  cause.  He  was  a 
wonderful  rifle  shot,  but  this  brought  him  no  fame  ;  he 
was  one  of  the  most  skillful  of  fishermen,  but  this 
aroused  not  the  slightest  degree  of  interest ;  he  was  a 
dangerous  opponent  in  a  wrestle ;  a  champion  at  a 
corn-shucking ;  a  notably  solemn  man  at  a  funeral ;  a 
marked  rejoicer  at  a  celebration ;  an  astonishing  breaker 
of  colts ;  a  master  of  stubborn  steers,  and  the  terror  of 
balky  horses,  and  yet  all  these  accomplishments,  any 
t\vo  of  which  are  quite  enough  to  bring  renown  to  a 
man  in  almost  any  mountain  community,  were  disre 
garded.  Why,  then,  was  he  known  to  all  ?  Simply 
because  he  was  the  father  of  Rachel  Moss.  It  had  often 
been  declared  by  men  of  keen  judgment  and  women  of 
unerring  taste,  that  Rachel  was  the  most  unattractive, 
indeed,  the  ugliest  girl  that  nature  could  possibly  form. 

She  had  the  hayest-like  hair,  the  catist-like  eyes  that 
(52) 


UGLY  RACHEL.  53 

had  ever  been  seen ;  her  mouth  looked  like  an  incision 
made  in  impulsive  revenge,  and  her  chin  was  the  very 
climax  of  ill-shape.  No  imagination  could  picture  a 
more  unattractive  woman. 

Naturally  enough,  Rachel  was  never  invited  into 
"  society."  No  one  seemed  to  think  that  there  could 
possibly  be  any  enjoyment  for  her.  Once  a  young 
fellow,  who,  in  early  youth  had  been  struck  on  the  head 
with  a  stone  and  who  had  afterward  been  nearly 
squeezed  to  death  by  a  bear,  a  man  who,  in  short,  was 
a  jabbering  idiot,  chattered  a  declaration  of  love 
to  her,  and  every  one  who  heard  of  it  roared  with 
laughter. 

Old  man  Moss,  Rachel's  father,  took  summer  board 
ers,  but  the  girl  never  attempted  to  force  her  presence 
upon  them.  When  not  engaged  in  the  kitchen,  or  when 
not  shyly  picking  her  way  along  the  tumbling  stream, 
she  sat  alone  in  an  attic  room. 

One  evening  a  distinguished  looking  traveler  stopped 
at  the  old  Moss  house.  He  was  an  artist  and  at  one 
time  had  dreamed  of  fame,  but  the  unexpected  in 
heritance  of  a  large  estate  and  the  ease  which  naturally 
followed,  turned  his  mind  from  the  thoughts  of  a 
struggle  for  a  place  in  the  capricious  world  of  art.  He 
had  passed  through  seasons  of  dissipation  and  was  now 
seeking  rest  far  from  the  exacting  eye  of  fashion.  He 
paid  no  attention  to  the  other  boarders — he  lived 


54  ODD  FOLKS. 

within  himself.  The  days  passed,  and  although  he 
politely  answered  every  question  addressed  to  him,  he 
avoided  meeting  any  one.  After  a  time  he  was  put 
down  as  a  man  suffering  from  the  guawings  of  remorse 

One  day  he  caught  the  sight  of  Rachel.  His  first 
impression  was  a  shudder  of  repulsion,  and  then  moved 
by  a  strange  fascination,  he  sought  a  better  view  of  her 
face,  which,  when  gained,  made  him  yearn  to  get  a 
closer  look  at  her  features.  The  dinner  hour  was  over 
and  the  boarders  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  porch,  nodding. 
The  woodpecker,  with  his  red  head  glaring  in  the  sun 
light,  tapped  on  the  dead  arm  of  a  white  oak  tree,  and 
a  ragged  sheep,  with  her  eyes  bulging  in  a  melancholy 
stare,  stood  in  the  dusty  road.  Rachel  slyly  stole 
away,  and  sought  the  cool  brink  of  the  hurrying  stream. 
The  artist  followed  her.  She  had  gone  some  distance 
up  the  rugged  glade,  and,  pausing  under  an  over-cup 
acorn  tree,  was  looking  at  a  wild  honeysuckle  that 
trembled  under  the  weight  of  a  humming-bird,  when  she 
heard  a  stone  splash  in  the  water.  The  next  moment 
she  had  turned  to  run  away,  when  the  artist  scrambled 
out  of  the  stream,  whither  a  treacherous  bowlder  had 
thrown  him  and  cried: 

"  Please  wait  a  moment." 

She  paused,  though  with  painful  embarrassment,  un 
til  he  approached,  and,  half  hiding  her  face,  waited  for 
him  to  speak. 


UGLY  RACHEL.  55 

"  If  the  water  had  been  deeper  I  should  have  had  a 
good  ducking,"  said  he.  "  I  am  not  as  dry  as  a  pow 
der-horn,  as  it  is." 

"I  am  sorry  you  fell  in,"  she  answered. 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  amount  to  anything,"  he  cheerfully 
replied.  "  We  live  in  the  same  house,  I  believe  ?  "  he 
continued  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes,  I  am  Mr.  Moss*  daughter." 

"  I  didn't  know  he  had  a  daughter." 

"  Then  you  have  not  heard  of  me  ?  " 

"No,  I  have  heard  of  nothing  concerning  the  family 
affairs  of  any  one  in  this  neighborhood." 

"  You  have  been  fortunate,"  she  said,  with  the  merest 
suggestion  of  bitterness  in  the  tone  of  her  voice.  "  I 
didn't  suppose  that  any  one  could  escape  hearing  an  ac 
count  of  my  father's  unfortunate  celebrity." 

"  I  don't  comprehend  your  meaning,"  he  rejoined. 
uls  your  father  celebrated  on  account  of  a  misfor 
tune?" 

"Yes." 

"And  may  I  ask  what  that  misfortune  is?" 

"  The  fact  that  he  is  my  father,"  she  answered. 

"  But  why  is  that  a  misfortune  ?  " 

"  Can't  you  see  ?  "  she  bitterly  asked,  throwing  aside, 
with  unwonted  boldness,  her  old  sun  bonnet,  and  ex 
posing  every  feature  of  her  face.  "  Don't  you  see 
that  it  is  because  I  am  unrivalled  in  my  ugliness? 


56  ODD  FOLKS. 

Come,  be  honest  enough  to  acknowledge  that  you  do 

see." 

"I  confess  that  you  may  be  without  a  rival  in  your 

unenvied  line  of  distinction,   but  I  can't  see  why  the 

old  man  should  be  held  accountable." 

"  Oh,  your  honesty  is  charming,"  she  cried,  laughing 

merrily  ;  «  I  never  encountered  such  frankness  outside 

a  book." 

"  You  know  something  of  books,  then,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  driven  into  an  acquaintance  with 

them.     You  must  know  that  among  ignorant  people 
much  depends  upon  looks.      Intelligence   counts   fur 
nothing,  and  cultivation   is  looked  upon  as  a  weakness 
or   rather   as   an    insanity.     An    old    school    teacher 
boarded  at  our   house  years  ago,  and  filled  our  attic— 
now  my  attic— with   books.     He  was  kind  enough,  or 
tolerant  enough,  to  teach  me,  and  when  he  died,  he  left 
me  his  books.     That  is,  he  was  unable  to  take  them 
with  him,  and  as  no  one  else  wanted  them  they  became 
my  property.     If  I  had  been  passably  good  looking,  I 
should  doubtless  have  never  looked  into  them,  but  as 
my  face   was  my  physical  misfortune  I  was  driven  to 
the  attic  for  my  only  real  pleasure.     I  know  but  little 
of  the   neighborhood  gossip,   and,  therefore,  have  but 
little  to  say  to  the  neighbors.     In  fact,  I  am  ashamed  to 
talk  to  ignorant  people." 


UGLY  RACHEL.  57 

"  I  must  thank  you  for  the  compliment  you  are  now 
paying  me,"  said  the  artist. 

"  Oh,  you  are  under  no  obligations  whatever.  But 
to  tell  you  the  truth  I  am  surprised  that  I  should  talk 
so  freely  to  you,  a  total  stranger.  I  suppose,  though, 
we  all  have  our  moods.  If  I  had  seen  you  sooner,  I 
should  have  run  away/' 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't,  for  I  am  in  need  of  your 
society,  although  I  am  not  so  very  bookish.  I  have  de 
voted  my  life  to  the  study  of  art." 

"  There  }^ou  have  a  decided  advantage  of  me,"  she 
answered.  "  I  know  nothing  whatever  of  art,  except 
what  I  have  read." 

"  In  that  event  you  know  as  much  as  most  people, 
for  there  are  thousands  of  pretended  art  critics  who  do 
not  even  read  about  it.  By  the  way,  I  have  become 
interested  in  you." 

"  Thank  you.  I  will  attempt  to  make  better  bread 
after  this." 

"I  am  serious,"  he  earnestly  declared. 

"  So  am  I,"  she  replied.  "  There  is  nothing  more 
serious  than  making  bread." 

"  Come,  now,  don't  guy  me  ;  don't  make  fun  of  me." 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  make  anything  of  you  more 
than  you  are." 

"That's  a  compliment,   or  it  isn't,   I   don't  know 


58  ODD  FOLKS. 

which ;  but,  really,  I  am  interested  in  you  and  have  a 
favor  to  ask." 

44  What  is  it?" 

"  That  you  will  meet  me  here  every  day." 

"But  I  should  like  to  know  why." 

"I  can't  tell  you  now — I  will  some  other  time." 

"I  can't  promise." 

"  But  will  you  meet  me  here  to-morrow  ?  " 

44  Yes,  I  will  promise  that,  but  I  don't  know  why. 
Indeed,  if  I  had  been  told  an  hour  ago  that  I  should 
ever  have  agreed  to  meet  any  one,  and  especially  a  man, 
I — well,  I  could  not  have  thought  such  a  thing  possible. 
I  must  go  now." 

The  artist  sat  for  a  time  gazing  after  her  and  then  he 
gave  himself  up  to  meditation.  He  was  interested  in 
her — more  deeply  interested  than  he  had  ever  been  in 
any  human  being.  "  I  will  paint  her  portrait,"  he  had 
mused  while  talking  to  her.  "  From  the  very  child 
hood  of  art  down  to  its  unrevered  gray  hairs  to-day, 
the  artist  has  sought  in  high  and  low  life,  the  beautiful 
face  that  should  on  his  canvas,  carry  his  name  down 
through  4  all  time  to  come.'  Why  should  not  I  reverse 
this  order — why  should  not  those  ugly  features  bear 
my  name  to  generations  yet  to  come  ?  I  will  win  her 
consent  and  will  paint  a  true  portrait,  which,  in  com 
parison,  shall  show  4  Medusa'  as  a  joy  for  ever,  being 
so  truly  a  thing  of  beauty." 


UGLY  RACHEL.  m  59 

He  sat  there  deeply  meditating,  and  to  him  there 
came  back,  as  if  an  anxious  hour  of  the  necessitous 
past  had  stepped  into  the  prosperous  and  easy  present, 
a  dream  of  fame,  a  dream  so  vivid  and  intense  that  he 
shook  with  agitation. 

The  next  day  he  was  sitting  on  that  same  rock, 
when  Rachel  came.  "I  don't  know  why  I  am  so 
prompt,"  she  said.  "In  fact,  I  don't  know  why  I 
have  come  at  all,  yet  something  seemed  to  be  drawing 
me." 

His  blood  leaped.  Fate  herself  was  aiding  him.  "  I 
should  have  been  greatly  disappointed  if  you  hadn't 
come,"  he  answered.  "  Isn't  the  day  lovely  ?  " 

44  Yes,  it  falls  upon  the  earth  like  God's  beneficent 
smile."  He  looked  up  quickly,  and  wished  that  he 
could  have  thrown  her  face  upon  the  canvas  at  that  mo 
ment.  He  asked  her  to  name  her  favorite  books,  and 
for  more  than  an  hour  he  sat  listening  to  the  passionate 
praise  which  she  bestowed  upon  her  friends,  and  at 
times  he  fancied  himself  attempting  to  paint  her  words. 
Once  he  thought  to  tell  her  of  the  intended  portrait, 
but  discretion  whispered  that  the  time  was  not  yet  in 
full  bloom. 

Day  after  day  they  met  under  the  over-cup  acorn 
tree.  The  time  was  in  full  bloom  and  he  said : 
"  Rachel,  I  have  another  great  favor  to  ask  of  you,  the 
greatest  that  I  could  possibly  ask." 


60  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  Is  it  that  I  might  still  farther  improve  in  my  bread 
making?  " 

"  Will  you  never  forbear  to  ridicule  me  ?  What  do 
I  care  for  bread  ?  Bread  may  be  the  staff  of  life,  but 
art  is  the  wing  of  the  soul.  I  want  to  paint  a  portrait 
of  you;  want  to  paint  you  just  as  you  are,  so  that  in 
after  years  I  can  look  upon  your  face  and  bring  up 
these  surroundings." 

She  laughed.  He  looked  up  in  surprise.  "A 
miracle  has  been  wrought,"  she  said.  "A  man  has 
cultivated  me  for  my  face  alone.  Yes,  you  may  paint 
my  picture,  for  your  poorest  work  can  but  flatter  me  ; 
but  I  shall  name  the  conditions.  The  picture  must  be 
painted  here,  and  at  no  time  must  you  work  on  it  after 
I  have  told  you  to  stop." 

"  The  conditions  are  satisfactory,  Rachel.  I  will  be 
gin  to-morrow." 

Day  after  day  she  sat  for  him.  Sometimes,  with  his 
brush  just  ready  to  touch  the  canvas,  he  would  pause 
and  listen  to  her  as  if  her  words  were  the  unexpected 
wild-wood  notes,  and  sometimes,  when  she  seemed  to  be 
inspired  with  poetry,  he  would  turn  away  from  his  work 
and  in  a  tranquil  rapture  gaze  upon  her.  One  day  he 
touched  the  canvas  and,  throwing  down  his  brush,  ex 
claimed: 

"  God  in  Heaven,  it  is  beautiful."  It  was  the  picture 
of  a  divine  face— the  features  of  an  angel.  "  Rachel," 


UGLY  RACHEL.  61 

he  cried,  "  I  have  painted  your  soul.  See,"  it  sprang 
from  the  canvas  like  a  burst  of  light.  "  Look,  girl,  I 
have  caught  a  face  fresh  from  Heaven's  mould.  It  is 
your  soul,  girl,  it  is  your  soul !  Look,  Rachel !  "  He 
ran  to  her  and  started  back  in  horror.  She  was  life 
less,  and  his  brush  had  caught  the  image  of  her  passing 
soul. 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE. 


CHARACTERS. 

John  Radfleld,  general  inspector  American  Express 
Company ;  Harvey  Gray,  a  handsome  deaf  mute  ; 
Nick  Bowles,  a  detective ;  Nat  Morris,  son  of  widow ; 
Jerry,  colored  man  of  all  work;  Widow  Morris; 
Laura,  pretty  daughter  of  widow;  Harriet,  old  maid 
daughter  of  widow. 

ACT  I. 
TIME,  THE   PKESENT. 

SCENE — Farm  house  of  widow,  turned  into  summer  re 
sort,  Northern  Illinois.  Parlor,  plainly  furnished,  old  me- 
lodeon  or  piano,  center  table,  sofa,  rocking  chairs,  several 
upholstered  chairs,  simple  pictures  on  wall,  door  C,  small 
mirror  on  wall  L,  blind  fireplace  L  covered  ivith  screen, 
poker  decorated  with  a  ribbon  leaning  against  wall  near 
screen.  Curtain  rises  discovering  Laura  sitting  on  sofa  ; 
Jerry,  with  hat  wadded  in  his  hand,  standing  near  the  door 
as  if  about  to  go  out. 

JERRY— An'  ez  I  wus  sayin'  ter  myse'f,  ef  dat  man 
Mr.  Radfield  has  got  so  much  money,  w'y  doan  he  go 
ober  yander  ter  de  hotel  dat  da  built  'cross  de  lake  ? 

(62) 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE.  63 

Ef  I  had  money  like  da  say  he  has,  you  wouldn't  see 
me  roostin'  on  de  groun';  huh,  see  me  up  in  de  highest 
tree.  But  I  doan  know  whuther  he  got  money  or  not ; 
he  ain't  come  showin'  me  none. 

LAURA — (smiling')  People  don't  usually  go  round 
showing  their  money. 

JERRY — (jolting  himself  with  a  laugh)  He  doan,  an' 
dat's  er  fack.  But  whut's  de  matter  wid  dat  uder 
ge nerman  ? 

LAURA — Who,  Mr.  Gray?  Why,  he  is  a  deaf 
mute. 

JERRY — Huh,  an'  I  reckon  dat's  de  reason  he  kain't 
talk.  Now  ain't  dat  er  mighty  bad  fix  fur  er  person 
ter  be  in  ?  'Pear  ter  me  like  ef  I  couldn't  talk  I'd  jest 
hatter — hatter — talk  anyhow ;  jest  couldn't  keep  from 
it.  Dar  ain't  nuthin'  dat  could  keep  me  frum  it,  I  tell 
you,  caze  when  I  gits  mad  it — it — it  jest  talks  itse'f. 
Wall,  I  must  be  gwine  now.  I  clar  I  so  busy  I  doan 
know  what  ter  do  fust.  An'  do  you  know  dat  yo'  sis 
ter  come  er  callin'  me  lazy  ?  Yas,  she  did.  Come  woke 
me  up  whar  I  wuz  lyin'  er  sleep  out  dar  under  er  apple 
tree  jest  ter  call  me  lazy.  Dat  wan't  no  way  ter  act, 
an'  says  I,  "  gone  way  frum  yere,  chile,  an'  doan  fool 
wid  me  caze  I'se  dangus."  Yas,  I  mus'  go,  now. 

LAURA — Well,  why  don't  you  go  on? 

JERRY — Who,  me?  Now  you  ain't  goin'  ter  turn  er 
gin  me,  is  you  ?  I  neber  seed  sich  times  ez  dese  yere. 


64  ODD  FOLKS. 

Eber  body  tellin'  you  ter  go  on  now.  An'  I'm  gwine, 
too.  Wall,  I  must  go.  Whut  you  want  ter  keep 
lioldin'  me  yere  fur  ? 

LAURA — (with  pretended  anger}  You  trifling  rascal, 
I'm  not  holding  you.  Go  on. 

JERRY — Dat's  whut  I  said  I  gwine  do.  Yere  I  goes. 
(Exit.) 

Enter  HARVEY  GRAY. 

LAURA — What  a  pity  it  is  that  he  can  neither  hear 
nor  talk.  (Gray  takes  the  rocking  chair  and  turning  it 
toward  her,  sits  down.)  Yes,  and  he  is  so  handsome,  too. 
How  sad  he  looks.  They  say  that  it  is  just  as  much 
as  he  can  do  to  write  his  name.  What  a  pity.  (Sud 
denly  brightening)  But  what  a  chance  this  is  for  me  to 
say  what  I  please  to  a  man.  And,  oh,  how  I  can 
practice  on  him  and  say  lovely  things  to  him.  Oh, 
how  handsome  you  are ;  and  I  am  in  love  with  you. 
Now,  sir,  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  Why  don't  you 
tell  me  how  delightful  it  is  to  have  a  modest  girl  tell 
you  of  her  love  ?  Poor  man,  I  am  sorry  for  you,  and 
I'm  going  to  keep  on  telling  you  how  much  I  love 
you.  You  are  just  as  sweet  as  you  can  be.  Why,  he's 
not  even  looking  at  me.  Never  mind,  sir.  You  don't 
appreciate  your  good  fortune ;  you  don't  know  what  a 
precious  thing  a  young  girl's  love  is ;  and  a  handsome 
girl,  too.  (Springs  from  the  sofa  and  humorously  poses 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE.  65 

in  front  of  mirror.)  Now  you  may  think  that  this  is 
vanity,  but  if  you  do,  you  won't  say  anything  about  it, 
will  you  ?  You  mustn't  because  you  are  my  sweet 
heart,  you  know. 

Enter  Miss  HARRIET. 

HARRIET — Why,  whom  are  you  talking  to? 

LAURA — Oh,  to  Mr.  Gray. 

HARRIET — What  a  silly  goose  you  are. 

LAURA — Why,  just  because  I  have  taken  advantage 
of  the  opportunity  to  say  what  I  please  to  a  man  ?  I 
can't  let  such  a  privilege  slip  past  me.  (Takes  hold  of 
Harriet  and  attempts  to  waltz  with  her.) 

HARRIET — (freeing  herself)  For  gracious  sake  stop 
your  foolishness.  I  never  saw  such  a  girl.  What  must 
this  man  think  of  you,  cutting  up  this  way  ? 

LAURA — It  doesn't  make  any  difference  what  he 
thinks.  He  won't  say  anything  about  it,  will  you  pre 
cious  ?  (to  Gray.) 

HARRIET — (  with  energy)  Laura,  I'm  ashamed  of 
you.  Go  on  out  there  and  help  mother  set  the  table. 

LAURA — (with  mock  concern)  And  will  you  promise 
not  to  make  love  to  my  sweetheart  while  I'm  gone  ? 

HARRIET — (laughing  in  spite  of  all  efforts  at  restraint) 
Oh,  go  on  with  you.  You  are  enough  to  make  a  cat 
laugh. 

LAURA — (with     assumed     surprise)      And     I    have 


66  ODD  FOLKS. 

tickled  my  sister,  and  ray  only  sister  at  that.  (Hums 
a  tune,  waltzes,  exit.) 

HARRIET  —  (taking  up  a  book  and  seating  herself  on  the 
sofa)  I  wonder  how  much  longer  Mr.  Radfield  is  go 
ing  to  stay.  He  is  in  love  witli  Laura  and  she  is  a  fool 
if  she  doesn't  marry  him.  They  would  live  in  the 
city  and  I  could  spend  the  most  of  my  time  with  them. 
He  likes  me  ;  I  can  see  that. 

The  door  is  partly  open.     Eadfidd  looks  in. 

HARRIET  —  (Moving  over  to  one  end  of  the  sofa) 
Come  in. 

RADFIELD  —  (entering  with  dignity  and  taking  a  chair, 
turns  his  back  on  Gray,  who  dreamily  sits  there,  slowly 
rocking)  Rather  warm  in  the  sun.  (Looks  toward  the 
door  and  perceiving  the  widow  Morris,)  Why  don't  you 
come  in  and  rest  a  while,  madam  ?  You  are  simply 
working  yourself  to  death. 

WIDOW  —  (entering,  seating  herself  on  the  sofa  beside 
Harriet  and  fanning  herself)  A  body  does  have  to 
scuffle  mightily  to  make  a  living  these  days,  I  tell  you. 
Up  this  morning  by  daylight  and  have  been  going  it 
ever  since. 

RADFIELD  —  (bowing)  Pardon  me  if  I  obtrude  a 
suggestion,  but  why  don't  you  insist  upon  your 


HARRIET  —  Now,  Mr.  Radfield,  you  needn't  say  that 
we  don't  help  her.     Oh,  I  know  what  you  were  going 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE.  67 

to  say  (shaking  her  finger  at  him),  and  you  needn't  say 
it.  Mama  knows  that  we  help  her  all  the  time. 

RADFIELD — (apologetically)  Yes,  I  suppose  you  do. 
I  was  merely  joking.  But  it  is  a  shame  that  a  woman 
must  work  so  hard. 

WIDOW— (still fanning  herself)  Well,  I'm  glad  that 
there's  one  man  who  looks  at  it  that  way.  They  are 
precious  few,  goodness  knows,  and  if  I  were  a  girl  I 
would  not  marry  a  man  until  he  acknowledged — ac 
knowledged — well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  I  have  so 
many  ideas  but  haven't  the  language  to  express  them 
with. 

RADFIELD — But  you  have  language  enough  to  dis 
charge  that  lazy  negro.  Why  don't  you  fire  him  ? 

WIDOW — I  can't  for  he  did  us  a  great  service  once, 
not  very  long  ago.  My  son  Nat  fell  into  the  lake  and 
Jerry  saved  him  from  drowning,  and  I  can't  discharge 
him  on  that  account  and 

RADFIELD — (in  an  undertone)  Rather  a  doubtful  serv 
ice. 

WIDOW— (looking  inquiringly  at  him)  What  did  you 
say,  sir? 

RADFIELD — I  said  it  was  a  great  service. 

WIDOW — Oh,  yes  indeed,  for  I  don't  know  what  we 
should  do  without  dear  Nat.  He  is  such  a  good 

(A  voice  without  crying.  Haw,  o/i,  maw) 

WIDOW— What  is  it,  my  son  ? 


68  ODD  FOLKS. 

N AT— (appearing  at  door)  Make  Laura  gimmy  my 
knife. 

WIDOW — Laura,  dear,  give  him  his  knife. 

LAURA — (without)  Haven't  seen  his  knife. 

NAT — She  has,  too.  First  thing  she  knows  I'll  whip 
her,  too.  All  time  tryin'  to  run  over  me.  (Enters  with 
his  fists  doubled,  and  approaches  Jus  mother.  She  reaches 
up  and  puts  his  hair  back  out  of  his  eyes) 

WIDOW — Can't  you  speak  to  Mr.  Radfield? 

NAT — Don't  want  to  speak  to  him ;  ain't  got 
nothin'  to  tell  him. 

WIDOW — Well,  go  on  out  now,  and  split  some  stove 
wood. 

NAT — Make  Jerry  split  it. 

JERRY — (thrusting  his  head  in  at  the  door)  Whut's 
dat  ?  Boy,  you  doan  know  whut  you  talkin'  bout.  I 
— I — I  split  wood  befo  you  wuz  born,  chile. 

RADFIELD — And  you  haven't  split  any  since,  have 
you? 

JERRY — (with  great  indignation)  Look  yere,  white 
pusson,  ain't  you  'feard  dat  mouth  o'  yourn  will  go  off 
some  time  an'  hurt  you? 

WIDOW — (with  anger)  Jerry,  you  impudent  rascal, 
get  away  from  that  door !  Get  away  this  instant. 

JERRY — (looking  up  and  down  the  door)  Ain't  hurt  de 
do'.  Lemme  see,  did  I  knock  a  splinter  off  yere  ?  No, 
de  do'  is  all  right. 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE.  69 

HARRIET — Mr.  Radfield,  what  was  that  you  were 
telling  me  yesterday  about  the  moon  in  the  picture  ? 

RADFIELD — Oh,  I  was  simply  telling  you  about  a 
piece  of  perfect  art.  A  friend  of  mine  was  suddenly 
stricken  with  insomnia ;  he  tried  all  sorts  of  remedies, 
but  couldn't  sleep.  He  consulted  numerous  doctors, 
but  they  were  unable  to  do  anything  for  him.  He  had 
been  a  sound  sleeper,  and  the  sudden  loss  of  this  faculty 
not  only  frightened  him  but  puzzled  him  as  well.  And 
finally  the  cause  came  out :  He  had  bought  a  picture 
and  had  hung  it  in  his  bedroom,  and  in  the  picture  was 
a  moon,  and  the  moon,  being  full,  shone  in  his  face  and 
robbed  him  of  sleep. 

JERKY — Well,  (scratching  his  head)  I  has  been  on 
han'  at  er  good  many  stretches  o'  de  truth,  but  dis  yere 
is  er  bout  de  stretchest  stretch  I  eber  seed.  De  moon 
in  de  pictur',  er  haw  !  haw  !  (Disappears.) 

WIDOW — (to  Nat)  Go  on  now  and  wash  your  face  for 
dinner. 

NAT — (frowning')  All  time  have  to  wah — wash  my 
face.  Washed  it  yesterday. 

RADFIELD — I  didn't  suppose  it  had  been  wet  since 
you  fell  into  the  lake. 

NAT — (moving  toward  the  door)  Want  you  to  let  me 
alone,  now.  All  time  tryin'  to  run  over  me.  Laura! 
(calling  loudly)  want  my  knife.  Goin'  to  hurt  you  first 
thing  you  know,  too.  Tell  this  feller  that  you  are  in  love 


70  ODD  FOLKS. 

with  him  the  first  thing  you  know  (looking  at  Radfield.) 
All  time  taking  my  knife.  (Exit.) 

WIDOW — (arising)  Well,  I  must  see  about  dinner. 

HARRIET — Want  me  to  help  you,  mama? 

WIDOW — No  ;  there's  but  little  to  do  now.     (Exit) 

HARRIET — (appearing  to  be  much  relieved)  When  you 
want  me  to  do  anything  call  me. 

Gray  arises  as  if  from  a  doze,  walks  about  the  room, 
looks  at  the  pictures,  goes  back  to  the  rocking  chair,  places 
his  hand  upon  the  back  of  it  as  if  meditating,  and  suddenly 
turning  leaves  the  room. 

HARRIET — Poor  man,  what  a  pity. 

RADFIELD— Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that.  He  misses 
.  hearing  a  great  many  disagreeable  things. 

HARRIET — But  he  also  misses  music,  which  is  the 
greatest  of  misfortunes. 

RADFIELD — Yes,  and  he  fails  to  hear  the  bagpipes 
when  the  Scotch  have  a  picnic,  and  that  is  a  blessing. 

HARRIET — What  a  funny  man  you  are,  Mr.  Rad 
field.  (Suddenly  as  if  moved  by  an  inspiration)  But  he 
hears  no  word  of  love,  and  missing  that,  life  has  gone  to 
seed  without  having  bloomed. 

RADFIELD — Good,  that  is,  in  a  poetic  way,  but  he 
also  hears  no  word  of  hate  and  therefore  misses  the  bit 
terness  of  the  human  heart.  It  is  but  natural,  how 
ever,  you  should  turn  to  the  poetry  of  nature,  living  as 
you  do  in  the  very  whisper  of  nature's  secrets ;  to  you 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE.  71 

there  is  a  sigh  in  the  wind,  a  tear  in  the  cloud,  a  smile 
in  the  rays  of  the  sun  ;  but  to  people  who  live  in  the 
actual  world,  the  hard,  grinding  world,  there  is  so  much 
bald  necessity  that  there  can  be  but  little  beauty,  little 
of  the  poetry  of  sweet  inference.  There,  the  pleasant 
man  may  be  the  scoundrel  and  the  uncouth  and  hated 
person  may  be  the  real  gentleman.  It  is  only  on  the 
stage  that  the  villain  wears  his  principles  stamped  upon 
his  countenance. 

LAUEA — (calling  from  without)     Mr.  Radfield,  there's 
a  man  out  here  that  wants  to  see  you. 
RADFIELD — Tell  him  to  come  in. 

Enter  Nick  Bowels.  Bows  to  Radfield,  and  then  looks  to- 
ivard  Harriet. 

HARRIET — (arising)  I  will  go  and  help  mother  with 
the  dinner.  (Exit.) 

BOWLES— (Seating  himself  and  leaning  toward  Rad 
field)  Well,  sir,  I  am  here. 

RADFIELD — So  I  see.  Now  I  suppose  you  thor 
oughly  understand  the  case.  The  robbery  of  the  ex 
press  office  at  Mingago  occurred  about  six  months  ago. 
The  first  thing  the  agent  knew,  one  night,  he  saw  a 
man  in  the  room,  and  the  next  thing  he  knew  he  was 
lying  stunned  on  the  floor.  Some  120,000  were  taken 
out,  money  that  had  been  forwarded  a  few  days  before 
and  was  consigned  to  a  party  of  men  who  had  made 
rather  large  purchases  of  land.  We  put  some  of  the 


72  ODD  FOLKS. 

very  best  detectives   at  work  on  the  case,  and  one  by 
one  they  were  withdrawn.     There  is  a  reward  of  $5,- 

000  offered,  and — well,  I  have  discovered  a  clue.     Wait 
a  moment.     (Detective  leaning  eagerly  toward  him}  Yes, 

1  have  a  clue.     I  came  up  here  to  spend  a  short  va 
cation,   simply  because  I  am  tired  of  large  resorts  and 
hotels,  and  I  have  improved  my  time.     In  this  house 
is  a  deaf  and  dumb  fellow  named  Gray.     He  is  the 
robber. 

BOWLES — How  do  you  know  ? 

RADFIELD— Oh,  I  don't  know  for  certain,  but  I  be 
lieve  it.  I  have  discovered,  no  matter  how,  that  the 
work  was  done  by  a  deaf  mute.  And  why?  He  was 
acting  with  a  gang  who  wanted  an  agent  that  could  not 
well  inform  on  them.  As  I  say,  I  am  not  absolutely 
certain,  but  a  few  days  more  will  absolutely  settle  it. 
Now  you  stay  about  here,  and  when  I  give  you  the 
word,  nab  him. 

BOWLES — But  you  must  be  reasonably  sure.  It  is 
dangerous  to  snatch  up  a  man 

RADFIELD— Don't  you  worry  ;  I'll  fix  that. 

LAURA — (laughing  and  thrusting  her  head  in  at  the 
door)  Come  on  to  dinner. 

Curtain. 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE.  73 

Act  II. 
ONE  WEEK  LATEK. 

SCENE — Same.  Gray  and  Laura  entering  room  as  curtain 
goes  up.  Gray  takes  rocking  chair;  Laura  flounces  about 
on  sofa  and  then  settles  herself  at  one  end  of  it. 

LAUKA — And  we  had  such  a  delightful  time  in  the 
boat,  didn't  we  sweetheart  ?  Why,  I  didn't  know  you 
could  row  so  well.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  But  you 
don't  tell  everything  you  know,  do  you  ?  My,  I'm  not 
half  so  discreet  as  you  are.  1  tell  everything  I  know 
and  would  tell  more  if  I  could  think  of  it.  And  you 
haven't  told  me  how  long  you  intend  to  stay.  Humph, 
you  haven't  told  me  yet  where  you  live.  Ain't  it  funny 
to  be  in  love  with  a  man  and  not  know  where  he  lives? 
You  are  just  too  sweet  for  anything.  Who  would  have 
ever  thought  that  I  could  talk  this  way  to  a  man  ?  But 
it  won't  go  any  farther,  will  it  sweetheart?  Oh,  but 
how  are  you  going  to  ask  mama  for  my  hand,  you  sweet 
thing?  But  I  must  quit  this  foolishness.  The  first 
thing  I  know  I  shall  be  in  love  with  you  sure  enough. 
I  declare  I  have  felt  so  sorry  for  you  that  I  believe  I 
am  actually  in  love  with  you.  Yes,  and  I  can  love  you 
all  I  want  to  and  nobody  will  be  the  wiser.  Isn't  it 
nice  to  make  a  doll  of  a  man  ?  And  suppose  I  get 
mad,  I  can  scold  you  all  I  please  and  you  would  never 
say  a  word.  How  nice  of  you  that  would  be.  You 


74  ODD  FOLKS. 

are  surely  an  exception.  Why,  my  papa  before  he  died 
used  to  scold  mama  every  once  in  a  while.  What  am 
I  talking  about  ?  Of  course  he  couldn't  scold  her  after 
he  died.  ( Gets  up  and  walks  about  the  room.  Poses  in 
front  of  the  mirror.  Hums  a  tune  and  -waltzes.  Gray 
smiles  and  nods  his  head)  You  "like  that,  don't  you 
sweetheart?  And  your  smile  isn't  dumb,  is  it  ?  No, 
indeed,  for  it  tells  me  a  great  deal.  (Gray  smiles  and 
nods  his  head.)  Yes,  it  does,  you  sweet  thing. 

Enter  RADFIELD. 

RADFIELD — (Drawing  a  chair  to  the  center  table,  sit 
ting  down  with  one  arm  carelessly  on  table)  Well,  I  see 
that  you  are  alone. 

LAURA — (surprised)  Alone  !  Why,  no  ;  Mr.  Gray  is 
with  me. 

RADFIELD— So  I  see,  but  unfortunately  he  is  no  com 
pany. 

LAURA — Quite  as  good  company  as  some  people  who 
talk  more  but  who  really  say  less. 

RADFIELD— (softly  laughing)  You  believe  then  in  the 
wisdom  of  silence. 

LAURA— The  poets  have  said  that  the  sweetest  music 
makes  no  sound. 

RADFIELD — And  the  poets  have  talked  nonsense. 

LAURA — Not  when  they  were  silent. 

RADFIELD— Good.    P;d  you  enjoy  your  boat  rule  ? 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE.  75 

LAURA — (with  enthusiasm}  It  was  delightful. 

RADFIELD — And  I  want  you  to  go  with  me  some 
time. 

LAURA — (spiritedly)  Oh,  you  want  me  to  go  with 
you.  Is  that  the  way  to  ask  ? 

RADFIELD — (bowing)  I  should  have  said  that  I  de 
sire  that  pleasure. 

LAURA— Oh,  that's  different.  But  I  can't  go  with 
you;  I'm  engaged  for  the  season. 

RADFIELD — Not  to  dummy,  I  hope. 

LAURA — (angrily)  Mr.  Radfield,  you  should  not 
speak  that  way.  This  man  can't  help  his  affliction.  I 
won't  talk  to  you  (Arising) 

RADFIELD — (apologetically]  Pardon  me,  please.  Wait 
just  a  moment.  Wait,  please,  I  was  joking.  (Laura 
halts  near  the  door.)  I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 

LAURA — Well,  say  it. 

RADFIELD — Sit  down  and  I  will. 

LAURA — No,  I'll  stand  here. 

RADFIELD — I  hardly  know  how  to  begin. 

LAURA — Then  what  you  were  going  to  say  must  not 
be  very  important. 

RADFIELD— Yes,  it  is  of  great  importance,  and  that 
is  the  reason  I  don't  know  how  to  begin. 

LAURA — Well,  I'm  waiting. 

RADFIELD — (seriously)  Miss  Laura — 

LAURA — That's  a  good  start. 


76  ODD  FOLKS. 

RADFIELD — Miss  Laura,  1  have  thought — 

LAURA — Oh,  you  have  thought.     You  surprise  me. 

RADFIELD — Please  give  me  time.  I  have  thought 
since  coming  here  that  I  had  found  the  most  charming 
spot  on  the  face  of  the  earth ;  and  the  secret  of  that 
charm  has  made  itself  known  to  me.  I  love  you. 
Please  wait.  Yes,  I  love  you.  I  know  how  awkward 
this  confession  is,  for  I  am  a  man  of  affairs  arid  am  but 
little  used  to  the  sly  ways  of  sentiment,  but  I  love  you 
and  want  you  to  be  my  wife.  In  the  city  I  have  gone 
into  society  just  enough  to  form  a  distaste  for  society 
women,  and  I  had  supposed  that  I  should  never  enter 
tain  the  thought  of  marriage,  but  you — you  have 
thrilled  me,  transformed  me,  compelled  me  to  sur 
render. 

LAURA — (sadly}  I  believe  you  are  in  earnest,  Mr. 
Radfield,  and  I  shall  therefore  speak  earnestly.  It  is 
possible  that  you  do  not  quite  understand  }rour  own 
mind.  I  am  a  simple  girl,  with  some  pretences  to  edu 
cation,  it  is  true,  but  when  brought  into  comparison 
with  the  women  of  the  world  I  might  be  found  sadly 
wanting.  I  am  flattered^by  your  offer,  I  admit,  but  I 
cannot  marry  you.  Wait,  now.  (Radfield  moves  im 
patiently.)  I  waited  for  you  and  now  you  must  wait 
for  me.  I  am  old-fashioned  enough  to  believe  that  a 
woman  should  love  her  husband,  and  I  don't  love  you  ; 


TEE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE.  77 

why,  our  marriage  is  out  of  the  question.  Isn't  it, 
sweetheart?  (Smiling  at  Gray.  Exit.) 

RADFIELD — (arising  and  walking  up  and  down  the 
room)  What !  it  can't  be  that  she  is  in  love  with  this 
poor  clod.  It  must  not  be.  With  that  girl  for  a  wife 
and  with  a  summer  home  here,  I  should  be  happy. 
And  this  sphinx  is  between  us.  (Turning  to  Gray.) 
Well,  I'll  fix  you. 

WIDOW — (without)  Go  right  on  now  and  wash  your 
face.  Go  on,  this  instant ! 

NAT — (without)  All  time  have  to  be  washin'  my  face. 
Make  Jerry  go  and  wash  his  face. 

Enter  Widow  and  Nat.  Widow  sighs  and  takes  rocking 
chair.  Nat  hangs  about  her,  standing  first  on  one  foot  and 
then  on  the  other. 

NAT — Want  ten  cents,  now. 

WIDOW — Go  on  away.     I'll  not  give  you  ten  cents. 

NAT — Want  ten  cents,  now. 

WIDOW — (making  a  motion  at  him)  If  you  don't  go 
on  away,  I'll  box  your  jaws. 

NAT — Don't  give  me  ten  cents  I'll  thrash  the  settin' 
hen  off  her  nest. 

WIDOW— Don't  you. do  that,  sir;  if  you  do,  I'll  whip 
you. 

NAT— If  you  don't  give  me  ten  cents,  I  won't  wash 
my  face. 


?8  ODD  FOLKS. 

WIDOW— Well,  will  you  go  and  wash  your  face  and 
be  a  good  boy  if  I  give  you  ten  cents  ? 

NAT — Yessum. 

WIDOW — (giving  him  money)  There  now,  dear,  go 
on  and  be  a  good  boy. 

NAT— Won't  be  good  all  the  time  for  ten  cents.  Be 
good  till  dinner  time.  (Exit  N) 

3  EKKY— (without)  Whut  you  come  runnin'  er  gin 
me  fur,  hah  ?  Look  whar  you  gwine,  ur  de  fust  thing 
you  know  suthin  gwine  drap  an'  drap  hard,  I  tell  you. 
(Enter  Jerry.)  Boy  come  runnin'  ergin  me  like  he 
wuz  er  calf.  Folks  all  time  tryin'  run  ove'  me. 
Gwine  yere  suthin  drap,  too,  dais.  Er— er— er  Miz 
Morris,  I  thought  I'd  come  an'  ax  you  ef  you  kere  ef  I 
put  on  dem  britches  hangin'  in  de  closet  up  stairs. 

WIDOW — There  are  no  breeches  hanging  there. 

JERRY— Yassum,  da  is,  caze  I  hung  'em  dar  yistidy. 

WIDOW— But  what  were  you  doing  with  them  ? 

JERRY— Why,  I  wore  'em  one  ur  two  times  an' hung 
'em  dar,  an'  now  I  'lowed  I  ax  you  ef  you  kere  ef  I 
w'ar  'em  ergin.  Huh? 

WIDOW— (almost  tearfully)  You  trifling  rascal,  those 
trousers  belonged  to  my  dear  husband. 

JERRY— (surprised)  Did  da?  Wall,  I  want  to  tell 
you  dat  he  wuz  er  pusson  dat  knowed  whut  britches 
wuz.  I  yered  folks  say  dat  he  wuz  er  mighty  smart 
man,  an'  da  say,  too,  dat  you  an'  him  wuz  monstus  well 


THE  MOON  IN  TUE  PICTURE.  79 

suited  to  one  nnder,  an'  I  thought  ez  he  wan't  gwine 
need  dem  britches  ergin,  you  mout  gib  'em  ter  me. 
Huh? 

WIDOW — Well,  yes,  you  may  have  them. 

JERRY — Thank  you,  ma'am.  Huh !  gwine  cut  a 
swath  'mung  dem  ladies  now,  I  tell  you.  (Turning  to 
90.) 

RADFIELD — Madam,  why  don't  you  make  that  fellow 
earn  those  trousers  ? 

JERRY — Dar's  dat  white  pusson  er  firm'  off  dat  mouth 
o'  hizen.  Ever'  time  I  comes  near  him  he  has  ter  'suit 
me.  Come  er  talkin'  'bout  er  moon  in  er  pictur  er 
keepin'  er  man  er  wake.  Whut  kin  yer  spect  frum  er 
pusson  like  dat  ?  An'  say,  pusson,  lemme  tell  you  dat 
you  gwine  keep  on  foolin'  wid  me  tell  you  yere  suthin' 
drap,  an'  w'en  you  look  roun'  ter  see  whut  it  is,  you'll 
find  yo'self  lyin'  dar.  Huh  ?  (Exit.) 

RADFIELD -(to  widow)  Why  don't  you  drive  that 
brute  off  the  place  ? 

WIDOW— Why,  didn't  I  tell  you  that  he  saved  Nat's 
life  ?  I  just  couldn't  think  of  driving  him  away  now, 
and  besides  he  is  so  much  help  to  me. 

(Gray  gets  up,  ivaUcs  about  the  room,  looking  at  the  pic 
tures!) 

.  RADFIELD — I  might  remember  my  obligation  to  him 
but  at  the  same  time  I  certainly  should  protect  myself 
against  his  insolence. 


80  ODD  FOLKS. 

WIDOW — Oh,  he  is  never  insolent  to  me ;  indeed,  he 
does  everything  I  tell  him  to  do.  (  Gray  approaches  the 
door,  stands  there  a  moment  and  exit)  Poor  man,  I  do 
pity  him. 

RADFIELD— Oh,  he's  all  right.  In  fact,  I  think  he  is 
to  be  envied. 

WIDOW — What,  a  deaf  and  dumb  man  to  be  envied. 
I  don't  see  how  you  can  make  that  out. 

RADFIELD— It  may  be  clearer  to  you  when  I  tell  you 
that  your  daughter  Laura  is  in  love  with  him. 

WIDOW — (yreatly  surprised)  Why,  how  can  you 
say  such  a  thing,  Mr.  Radfield  ? 

RADFIELD — Easily  enough.  Truth  may  be  pretty 
scarce,  but  sometimes  it  is  on  hand  and  then  to  tell  it 
is  not  a  difficult  matter.  I  know  that  she  is  in  love 
with  him.  I  heard  her  say  as  much. 

WIDOW — It  was  only  a  joke.  Laura  is  too  sensible 
a  girl  to  throw  herself  away. 

RADFIELD — I  wonder  then  that  she  is  not  sensible 
enough  to  see  something  that  is  to  her  advantage.  I 
have  asked  her  to  be  my  wife  and  she  has  refused. 

WIDOW— (thoughtfully]     Perhaps  she— 

RADFIELD — There  is  no  perhaps  about  it.  She  has 
simply  refused  to  marry  me.  I  hope,  madam,  that  you 
have  no  objections  to  me  ? 

WIDOW — (Iriyhteniny)     I    object   to   you?      Surely 


THE  MOON  IN  TEE  PICTURE.  81 

not,  Mr.  Radfield,  for  never  since  my  poor  husband's 
death  have  I  seen  a  man— 

RADFIELD — I  mean  of  course  that  I  hope  you  have 
no  objections  to  me  for  a  san-iri-law. 

WIDOW— (sobering)  Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean.  I 
am  surely  bright  enough  to  tell  what  a  person  means. 
I  don't  boast  of  being  very  smart  but  I  know  enough 
for  that.  I  hope  you  don't  think — 

RADFIELD — Of  course  not,  madam. 

WIDOW— Well  I'm  very  glad  you  don't.  Let  me 
see.  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  object  to  you  as  a  son- 
in-law,  but— there's  Harriet. 

Enter  HARRIET. 

HARRIET — Mother,  your  preserves  are  boiling  over. 

WIDOW— (springs  to  her  feet)  Gracious,  why  didn't 
you  tell  me  ? 

HARRIET — I  did. 

WIDOW— (passing  quickly  through  the  door)  Jerry, 
you  good-for-nothing  thing  why  did  you  let  them  pre 
serves  boil  over? 

JERRY — (far  without)  Doan  come  talkin'  ter  me 
w'en  I  dun  burnt  my  finger  in  'em  ;  soused  my  finger 
in  dar  ter  see  ef  da  wuz  hot  an  da  wuz. 

HARRIET— (seating  herself  on  the  sofa)     Pardon  me, 
but  did  I  hear  you  tell  mother  that  Laura  had  refused 
to  be  your  wife  ? 
6 


82  ODD  FOLKS. 

RADFIELD — Yes. 

HARRIET — Little  fool,  she  never  did  have  any  sense. 
But  never  mind,  she's  got  to  many  you. 

RADFIELD — I  am  thankful  that  you  champion  my 
cause.  I  (Bowles,  the  detective,  appears  at  the  door.) 
Come  in.  Miss  Morris  will  you  pardon  us  for  a  few 
minutes.  I  have  some  very  important  business  with 
this  man.  But  wait,  you  needn't  go.  What  was  I 
thinking  about  ?  I  can  go  out  with  him. 

HARRIET — (on  her  feet)  Oh,  no,  I  was  going  any 
way.  (Exit  H.) 

RADFIELD— (to  Bowles)    Sit  down. 

BOWLES — (continuing  to  sta?id)  No,  thank  you, 
haven't  time.  Just  stepped  in  to  tell  you  that  I'm  go 
ing  back  to  town.  I  don't  think  there's  anything  in 
the  case — your  suspicions  of  dummy  are  not  well  enough 
founded. 

RADFIELD— (rises)    Don't  be  a  fool,  man. 

BOWLES — I  have  decided  not  to  be  and  that's  the 
reason  I'm  going  back  to  town.  I  know  more  about 
this  business  than  you  do  ;  I  have  made  a  number  of 
mistakes  in  my  time  and  have  decided  to  profit  by 
them.  Good  day.  (Turns  to  go.) 

RADFIELD — Wait  a  moment. 

BOWLES — No  use  to  wait.  You  have  advised  me 
not  to  be  a  fool  and  I  have  taken  your  advice.  (Exit 


THE  MOON  IN  TEE  PICTURE.  83 

RADFIELD — Insolent  puppy.  Those  detectives  don't 
know  enough  to — there  you  are,  eh? 

Enter  Gray.  Walks  about  the  room,  paying  no  atten 
tion  to  Radfield. 

RADFIELD — I'm  going  to  get  rid  of  you  some  way, 
you  blockhead.  I  believe  if  you  were  out  of  the 
way  everything  would  be  well.  And  I  want  you  to 
understand  that  I'm  going  to  marry  that  girl.  ( Gray 
stands  with  his  back  toward  him,  looking  toward  mirror.) 
I  could  brain  you  and  no  one  would  ever  be  the  wiser. 
(Looks  about.)  I  could  hit  you  back  of  the  neck  and 
tell  them  that  you  had  fallen  in  a  fit.  Yes,  tell  them 
that  you  struck  your  head  against  the  rocker  of  this 
chair.  (Moves  chair)  I'm  not  going  to  be  foiled  by 
you.  (Seizes  poker.  Gray  wheels  about  with  a  pistol  in 
one  hand  and  with  other  hand  points  at  mirror) 

JERRY — (poking  his  head  through  the  door)     Yas,  sah, 
yas  sah ;  de  moon  in  de  pictur. 
Curtain. 


Act  III. 

TWO   DAYS   LATER. 

SCENE — Same.  Curtain  rises,  Radfield  and  Laura  dis 
covered  in  the  sitting-room,  Laura  in  rocking  chair  with 
book,  facing  Radfield,  who  stands  with  one  hand  resting  on 
center  table. 


84  ODD  FOLKS. 

LAURA — (looking  up  from  book)  Why  did  you  tell 
mama  that  you  had  asked  me  to  marry  you? 

RADFIELD — Perhaps  I  wanted  her  to  intercede  for 
me. 

LAURA — As  if  that  would  do  any  good. 

RADFIELD — I  didn't  know  but  it  might, 

LAURA — If  I  were  a  man  I  wouldn't  marry  a  girl 
that  had  to  be  begged. 

RADFIELD — (with  a  mirthless  laugh)  I  suppose  that 
is  the  right  view  to  take  of  it,  but  when  a  man  is  in  love 
all  sensible  views  are  obscured. 

LAURA — Can  you  be  so  much  in  love  as  that  ?  I 
thought  that  your  fancy  for  me  was  merely  an  idle 
whim. 

RADFIELD — Whims  belong  to  women,  men  are  moved 
by  ideas. 

LAURA — (with  surprise)  Oh  !  and  is  that  the  reason 
that  some  of  them  move  so  seldom  and  so  slowly  ? 

RADFIELD — (seriously)  Miss  Laura,  a  man  may  joke 
while  a  surgeon  is  cutting  off  his  arm,  but  levity  does 
not  come  from  a  wounded  heart.  If  a  man  jokes  when 
his  heart  aches  he  is  either  a  fool  or  a  hypocrite. 

LAURA — You  will  please  pardon  me,  but  I  don't 
think  that  you  love  me  very  much.  It  is  a  sort  of 
summer  love  and  will  pass  away  when  the  frost  falls. 

JERRY — (without)  Wonder  whar  I  lef  dat  ar  pipe. 
Neber  seed  de  like.  Man  kain't  put  his  pipe  down — 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE.  85 

(Enters  and  looks  at  Radfield.)  Skuze  me,  sail,  but  did 
you  pick  up  my  pipe  ? 

RADFIELD — (turning  contemptuously  upon  him)  What! 
Look  here  :  you'll  go  too  far  with  me  the  first  thing  you 
know.  Remember  that  I  am  under  no  obligations  to 
you.  You  haven't  saved  me  from  drowning. 

JERRY — (looking  at  him  with  a  squint  in  his  eye)  Yas, 
sah,  an'  you  went  too  fur  wid  me  de  minit  you  come  up 
ter  whar  I  wuz.  How  did  I  know  but  you  mout  hab 
picked  up  my  pipe  ? 

RADFIELD — (severely)  Get  out,  you  impudent  ras 
cal! 

JERRY — Dat's  zactly  whar  I  wuz  gwine,  sah.  (Moves 
to  the  door,  looks  back.)  One  deze  days  you  gwine  yere 
suthin  drap.  Mind  whut  I  tells  you,  an'  it  gwine  drap 
hard,  too.  (Exit  J) 

RADFELD — (to  Laura)  Your  mother  will  never  make 
a  success  at  keeping  boarders.  By  the  way,  how  long 
is  that  dummy  going  to  stay  ? 

LAURA — (looking  down  at  her  book)  Mr.  Gray  will  go 
when  he  is  ready  to  start,  I  suppose. 

RADFIELD — (taking  a  seat)  I  shouldn't  wonder.  By 
the  way,  did  your  mother  tell  you  anything  else  beside 
the  fact  that  I  had  asked  you  to  marry  me  ? 

LAURA — (without  looking  up)  I  don't  remember. 

RADFIELD — Didn't  she  tell  you  that  I  said  that  you 
were  in  love  with  Gray  ? 


86  ODD   FOLKS. 

LAURA — (without  taking  her  eyes  from  the  book)  Isn't 
he  handsome  ? 

RADFIELD — And  his  mind  is  as  deaf  as  his  ears. 
LAURA — And  he  is  so  much  of  a  gentleman. 

Enter  WIDOW. 

WIDOW— Do  I  intrude  ? 

LAURA.— {looking  up)  No,  mama,  we  are  so  glad  you 
came. 

WIDOW—  (seating  herself  on  the  sofa)  I  was  afraid 
that  you  were  talking  about  something  that  you  didn't 
want  me  to  hear. 

LAURA— (laughing)  But  a  girl  ought  not  to  talk 
about  anything  that  she  doesn't  want  her  mother  to 
hear. 

RADFIELD— (to  the  ividow)  There  is  thoughtfulness 
for  you. 

WIDOW— Oh,  Laura  is  all  the  time  thoughtful.  And 
all  my  children  are  obedient.  (Nat  enters  and  stretches 
himself  upon  the  floor.)  Get  up,  son.  Don't  lie  there, 
you  might  take  cold.  Did  you  hear  me  ?  Get  up  from 
there  and  go  and  wash  your  face. 

NAT— (turning  over)  All  time  have  to  wash  my  face. 
Why  don't  you  make  Jerry  wash  his  face  ? 

WIDOW — You've  got  nothing  to  do  with  Jerry.  Get 
up,  and  after  awhile  I'll  give  you  some  preserves. 

NAT — Want  'em  now. 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE.  87 

WIDOW — Wait  until  I  go  out. 

NAT — Give  'em  to  me  now  or  I  won't  get  up. 

WIDOW — All  right,  sir,  I  won't  let  you  go  to  mill 
with  Jerry  to-morrow. 

NAT — (brightening]  If  I  get  up  will  you  ? 

WIDOW — Yes,  if  you'll  get  up  and  be  good. 

(Nat  goes  to  the  sofa  and  lies  down  with  his  head  in 
widow"1  s  lap.) 

RADFIELD — (arising)  Well,  I  am  going  out  to  row. 
Won't  you  come  along,  Miss  Laura  ? 

LAURA — (without  looking  at  him)  No,  I  thank  you, 
I'm  tired. 

WlDOW — (persuasively,  to  Laura)  Oh,  go  on  with 
him. 

NAT — Mebby  if  you  give  her  some  preserves  she  will. 

LAURA — I  don't  care  to  go,  mama. 

WIDOW — Why,  you  go  with  Mr.  Gray,  and  he  can't 
even  ask  you. 

LAURA — And  probably  that's  the  reason  I  go. 

RADFIELD — (to  Laura)  Well,  will  you  go  this  after 
noon  ? 

LAURA — I'll  see  about  it. 

RADFIELD — That's  as  good  as  a  promise,  I  suppose. 
(Exit  Eatlfield.) 

WIDOW — (to  Laura)  Why  didn't  you  go  with  him  ? 

LAURA — Oh,  I  just  couldn't !  I  don't  like  him  at  all, 
mama,, 


88  ODD  FOLKS. 

WIDOW— I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  foolish.  (Rises) 
You  can  see  how  fond  he  is  of  you.  (Nat  tumbles  on 
the  floor)  Get  up,  son,  and  come  on.  Come,  and  I'll 
give  you  the  preserves. 

NAT — ((jetting  up)  And  you've  got  to  let  me  go  with 
Jerry,  too,  now. 

LAURA — (to  widow)  Oh,  yes,  I  can  see  how  fond  he 
is  of  me,  but  I  can't  see  how  fond  I  am  of  him. 

WIDOW — (leading  boy  toward  door)  It  does  seem  to 
me  that  a  girl  ought  to  look  after  her  own  interest ;  and 
times  are  so  hard  too.  (Exit  widow  and  boy.) 

LAUEA — I  wonder  if  they  think  I  could  marry  that 
man.  I  hate  him.  (Gray  appears  at  door.)  Come 
in  sweetheart.  (Gray  nods  to  her  and  seats  himself  on 
sofa.)  Sweetheart,  they  are  trying  to  take  me  away 
from  you  but  they  can't.  I  wonder  if  he  lias  an  idea  of 
what  I  am  talking  about? 

Enter  JERRY. 

JERRY— I  know  I  lef  dat  pipe  summers.  Huh, 
(looking  at  Gray)  yere's  dat  pusson  dat  kain't  talk. 
But  I  want  to  tell  you  what,  (looking  at  Laura)  he's  er 
fine  pusson.  Come  a  givin'  me  a  quarter  jest  de  same 
ez  ef  he  could  make  a  speech.  I  doan  blebe  it  make  so 
much  diffunce  whuther  er  man  kin  talk  ur  not.  I 
know  folks  dat  has  been  er  talkin'  all  dar  lives  an' 
neber  has  'mounted  ter  nuthin'  yit.  Yas,  I  does. 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE.  89 

(Feels  in  his  pockets.  Draws  out  a  pipe.)  Wh}r,  yere 
dat  triflin'  pipe.  Huh,  wlmt's  gittin'  de  matter  wid 
me  ?  But  I  wanter  tell  you  right  now  dat  it  wuz  er 
powerful  good  thing  dat  it  wan't  tuck  by  dat  pusson 
dat  called  me  er  rascal.  Mind  whut  I  tell  you,  he 
gwine  yer  suthin  drap  (Exit  J.) 

LAURA — (looking  at  Gray)  That's  the  funniest  negro 
you  ever  saw,  sweetheart ;  and  one  of  these  times  if  I 
learn  to  talk  on  my  fingers,  I  may  tell  you  about  the 
funny  things  he  does.  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  for  you.  A 
bird  flew  to  the  top  of  the  house  this  morning  and  sat 
there  and  sang  ever  so  long,  and  you  didn't  hear  his 
song.  I  thought  of  you  at  the  time.  How  many 
people  hear  the  songs  of  birds  and  are  too  dull  to  be 
thrilled.  But  you'd  be  thrilled  if  you  could  hear, 
wouldn't  you  sweetheart? 

Enter   HARRIET. 

HARRIET— What  are  you  doing  here,  Laura? 

LAURA — Oh,  just  talking  to  my  sweetheart. 

HARRIET — (frowning  at  her  and  taking  a  chair)  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself. 

LAURA — (innocently)  Why,  just  because  I  talk  to  my 
sweetheart?  Oh,  sister,  I  am  astonished  at  you.  Why, 
if  you  had  a  sweetheart,  wouldn't  you  talk  to  him  ? 
You  have  had  sweethearts,  and  didn't  you  talk  to 
them? 


90  ODD   FOLKS. 

HARRIET — (moving  angrily  in  her  chair)  I  wish  you 
did  have  some  little  sense,  Laura. 

LAURA — How  little  ? 

HARRIET— (flouncing)  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  ! 

LAURA — Well,  then,  I  must  talk  to  my  sweetheart. 

HARRIET — Silliest  goose  I  ever  saw.  Why  didn't 
you  go  boat  riding  with  Mr.  Radfield  ? 

LAURA — Oh,  because  I  was  tired. 

HARRIET — No,  you  were  not  anything  of  the  sort, 
and  you  know  it. 

LAURA — Yes,  if  I  wasn't  I  know  it. 

HARRIET— Goose  !  (After  a  pause)  Mr.  Radfield  is 
going  home  to-morrow. 

LAURA — Oh,  is  he  going  to  put  it  off  so  long  as  that? 

HARRIET — You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself. 
First  thing  you  know  you'll  have  all  the  neighbors 
saying  that  you  are  in  love  with  a  deaf  and  dumb 
man. 

LAURA — Yes?  I  wonder  when  they  are  going  to 
begin.  We  might  get  up  a  sort  of  a  picnic  for  the  oc 
casion.  Oh,  I'll  tell  Jerry  to  get  some  Chinese  lanterns 
when  he  goes  to  the  village. 

Enter  widow  with  Nat  tagging  after  her. 

WIDOW — (taking  a  seat  and  holding  Nat  on  her  lap) 
I'll  be  glad  when  night  comes,  I'm  so  tired. 

HARRIET — You  wouldn't  have  to  work  so  hard  if 
Laura  had  any  sense, 


TEE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE.  91 

LAURA— Isn't  that  unfortunate  !  Do  you  know  what 
I  am  going  to  do?  I'm  going  to  get  my  books  and 
study  as  hard  as  I  can.  Then,  you  see,  I'll  soon  have 
more  sense. 

HARRIET — (flouncing)    Oh,  don't  talk  to  me.  | 

LAURA— All  right,  I'll  talk  to  my  sweetheart. 

HARRIET — (to  widow)  Mother,  I'd  make  her  quit  that 
foolishness. 

WIDOW — (to  Laura)    You  must  stop  it,  dear. 

LAURA— Why,  what  harm  is  there  in  it  ?  He  can't 
hear  me? 

WIDOW — I  know,  but  other  people  can. 

LAURA— Oh,  well,  what  if  they  do?  they  must  know 
that  I  am  simply  joking. 

WIDOW — But  it  is  better  not  to  carry  on  that  way. 
Some  people  can't  understand  a  joke.  Nat,  (shaking 
him)  go  over  there  and  sit  down.  You  wear  me  out. 

NAT — What  will  you  give  me  ? 

WIDOW — Oh,  anything !  Go  over  there  and  sit  down 
on  the  sofa. 

NAT— By  him  ?     I'm  afraid  I'd  catch  it. 

HARRIET — (to  Nat)   Catch  what,  simpleton? 

NAT — That — that  not  knowin'  how  to  talk. 

HARRIET — And  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  you. 

Enter  RADFIELD. 
HARRIET — (rising)    Have  this  seat,  Mr.  Radfield, 


92  ODD  FOLKS. 

RADFIELD— No,  I  thank  you,  I  don't  care  to  sit  down. 
I  have  come  merely  to  tell  you  good  bye. 

HARRIET — Oh,  you  don't  mean  it ! 

RADFIELD — Yes,  I  must  get  back  to  town. 

Gray  gets  up  and  goes  out. 

WIDOW — We  are  so  sorry  to  lose  you. 

RADFIELD — I  wish  you  could  speak  for  every  one 
when  you  say  that.  (Looks  at  Laura.) 

HARRIET— Oh,  she  can,  I'm  sure.  But  will  you  not 
come  back  soon? 

RADFIELD— I  may,  but  I  can't  tell  how  soon.  I  have 
had— I  was  going  to  say  a  pleasant  time,  but  perhaps 
I  should  say  an  impressive  time. 

Enter  Gray.  Stands  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace, 
facing  the  rest  of  the  company. 

HARRIET — Is  Mr.  Gray  going  with  you  ? 

RADFIELD — (with  an  air  of  apology)  I  know  nothing 
of  the  intentions  of  our  unfortunate  friend.  (Looks  at 
Laura.) 

LAURA — Yes,  it  is  unfortunate  not  to  hear  some 
things,  and  still,  as  you  once  said  to  sister,  it  is  fortu 
nate  not  to  hear  other  things. 

RADFIELD— Yes,  I  believe  I  said  something  like 
that.  I  am  pleased  to  know  that  you  even  remem 
ber — 

LAURA — (interrupting  him)  Oh,  I  never  forget  any 
thing. 


TEE  MOON  IN  THE  PICTURE.  93 

RADFIELD — That  gives  me  a  hope  that  you  may  not 
forget  me. 

LAUKA — (as  though  she  did  not  hear  him)  Yes,  I  re 
member  the  good  and  the  bad  alike,  I  suppose. 

WIDOW — You  will  want  Jerry  to  take  you  to  the 
station,  won't  you? 

RADFIELD — I  should  prefer  some  one  else.  (Looks 
at  Laura.}  Can't  you  drive  me  out  ? 

LAURA — I'm  afraid  of  the  horse. 

HARRIET— I  will  drive  you,  Mr.  Radfield. 

RADFIELD — (bowing}  I  thank  you,  but  surely  I  do 
not  wish  to  put  you  to  that  trouble. 

HARRIET — No  trouble,  but  a  pleasure. 

Harriet  arises  and  Radfield  steps  toward  the  door. 
Gray  with  a  quick  movement  reaches  the  door  first,  turns 
and  confronts  him. 

GRAY — Stop !  Stand  where  you  are  !  (Every  one 
starts  up  in  astonishment.)  Ladies,  I  have  been  forced 
to  deceive  you.  My  name  is  not  Gray.  I  am  George 
Miller,  a  reporter  for  a  Chicago  newspaper,  and  I  have 
been  set  on  track  of  this  man,  to  fasten  the  proof  of  a 
robbery  upon  him.  He  is  the  man  who  has  robbed  the 
express  office,  his  own  company.  Don't  you  move ! 
(To  Radfield.)  Outside  are  two  deputy  sheriffs  waiting 
for  you.  Oh,  I've  got  the  absolute  proof  on  you. 

LAURA — (hiding  her  face)  And  oh  !  he's  got  the  ab 
solute  proof  on  me,  too ! 


94  ODD  FOLKS. 

GRAY— Yes,  I  have,  and  that  proof  is  that  you  are 
the  sweetest  and  most  charming  woman  in  the  world. 
(Holds  out  his  hands  ;  she  slowly  approaches  him  and  he 
takes  her  hands.) 

JERKY — (poking  his  head  in  at  the  door)  Whut  I  dun 
tole  you  'bout,  dat  suthin'  gwine  drap  ?  Ur  moon  in  er 
picture,  er — haw !  haw ! 

Curtain. 


HIS   SIXTEEN-EIGHTY-NINE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OFF  Dearborn  street  in  Chicago,  there  is  an  old 
book — "joint," — that  has  long  been  known  to  people 
who  find  a  musty  delight  in  old  style  type  and  musty 
bindings.  It  is  a  cellar,  approached  by  a  dark  and  nar 
row  stairway,  and  many  a  man,  attracted  thither  by 
stories  that  were  told  of  the  place,  have  turned  back  in 
disgust  when  half  way  down  the  stairs.  The  old  cellar 
was  of  itself  as  musty  as  a  rare  first  edition,  and 
was  but  dimly  lighted,  but  the  eager  eyes  of  a  true 
bibliomaniac  soon  discovered  the  beauties  of  this,  the 
wayward  hiding  place  of  weary  learning,  abashed  fan 
cies  and  murdered  ambitions.  The  walls  were  covered 
with  books,  and  the  corners  were  stacked  and  jammed 
with  old  political  pamphlets.  What  records  of  the 
law's  injustice;  what  demands  for  reformations  that 
never  came  I 

This  place,  known  as  the  "  Book-worm's  Joint,"  was 
kept  by  an  old  man  named  Dorsey.  He  was  once  the 

proprietor   of  an  old  book  stall  in  London.     Why  he 

(95) 


96  ODD  FOLKS. 

left  the  world's  relic  house  of  literature  and  settled  in 
Chicago  is  not  known,  nor  does  it  materially  affect  this 
recital.  I  don't  know  how  the  old  man  would  have  ap 
peared  in  the  sunlight,  for  I  never  saw  him  there,  but 
amid  the  shadows  of  his  "  joint,"  he  was  most  impress 
ive.  His  hair  was  long  and  white ;  his  flowing  gray 
beard  seemed  to  be  kept  as  a  sort  of  religion.  He  was 
tall,  and  bent  and  feeble.  His  eyes  were  of  a  mildewed 
brown,  in  color,  and  were  so  weak  that  he  could 
scarcely  read  a  newspaper — to-day's  "pert "  infringe 
ment  on  the  learning  of  yore — but  with  the  swift  glance 
of  intuition  he  could  discern  the  faded  title  of  an  an 
cient  tome.  Visitors  of  a  certain  class  were  welcome, 
but  purchasers  seemed  to  alarm  him.  He  was  com 
pelled  to  sell  books,  for  he  had  no  other  source  of  in 
come,  but  it  gave  him  pain  to  part  with  a  volume,  and 
once,  when  the  necessity  of  meeting  his  rent  had  forced 
him  to  sell  the  political  pamphlets  of  DeFoe,  he  fell 
upon  his  miserable  bed  and  moaned  as  if  his  heart 
would  break.  He  was  a  book  miser.  The  disastrous 
year  to  the  commercial  world  was  a  year  of  compara 
tive  prosperity  to  old  Dorsey,  for  then  he  was  not 
so  much  assailed  by  customers.  As  time  passed  he 
grew  worse  and  hugged  his  books  in  an  embrace  of 
despair. 

One  afternoon  a  collector  called  and  presented  him  a 
bill. 


HIS   SIXTEEN-EIGHTY-NINE.  97 

"  What  is  it  for  ?  "  the  old  man  asked,  tremblingly 
adjusting  his  glasses. 

"  December  rent." 

"  But  I  paid  it  the  other  day,  didn't  I  ?  " 

"  No,  you  paid  for  November  about  a  month  ago." 

"It  seems  to  me,  young  man,  that  you  were  here  the 
other  day  and  that  I  paid  you  for  December." 

"  I  can't  help  how  it  seems  to  you,  I  know  my  busi 
ness,  I  reckon." 

"  Well,  how  much  is  the  amount  ?  " 

"You  ought  to  know.  You've  paid  it  often 
enough." 

"  Ah,  I  grant  you  that,"  he  replied,  scanning  the  bill. 
"What!"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "forty  dollars! 
You  have  raised  on  me." 

"  No,  we  haven't.  It's  been  forty  dollars  for  the  last 
four  years." 

"But  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  pay  so  much,  young 
man." 

"  Well,  then,  get  out.  A  fellow  wants  to  start  a 
Turkish  bath  in  here,  anyway." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  ;  I  can't  do  that.  I  have  been  here  so 
long  that  I  am  attached  to  the  place." 

"  Well,  then,  pay  your  rent." 

"I  will,  but  I  can't  do  it  to-day.  Come  around  some 
other  time." 

"  I  will  come  to-morrow,  and  if  you  don't  pay  then 

7 


98  ODD  FOLKS. 

you  may  know  what  to  expect.  It's  growing  harder 
and  harder  to  get  money  out  of  you,  and  we're  getting 
tired  of  it.  See  ?  " 

The  collector  went  out,  and  Dorsey,  turning  to  a  man 
who  had  just  entered,  asked:  "  Can  I  do  anything  for 
you,  sir  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  the  man  answered,  slowly 
turning  about  the  room.  "  Thought  I'd  drop  in  and 
look  around.  Have  you  a  catalogue  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Ought  to  issue  one  every  once  in  a  while.'* 

44  That  would  be  unnecessary,  sir,  as  I  don't  add  to 
my  stock." 

44  Humph,  you  don't  do  a  very  thriving  business." 

44  No.  To  tell  the  truth  I  don't  care  to  do  any  busi 
ness.  I  did  at  first,  though.  I  used  to  purchase 
largely  and  get  out  a  catalogue  every  three  months  but 
novvr  I — the  truth  is,  I  have  only  the  books  that  I  am 
attached  to  and  don't  want  to  part  with  them." 

44  Ha !  rather  a  strange  case.  But  you  must  have 
made  considerable  money  while  you  were  actively  in 
the  business." 

41  Yes,  I  made  some,  but  lost  it.  Do  you  remember 
fifteen  years  ago  when  the  steamship  4McAlpin'  was 
lost?" 

4'  Yes,  believe  I  do." 

44 1  had  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  worth  of  books 


HIS  SIXTEEN-EIGHTY-NINE.  99 

on  board,  and  their  loss  discouraged  me  so  that  I  have 
never  taken  much  of  an  interest  in  business  since." 

"  I  see;  and  the  keeping  of  this  place  is  now  a  sort 
of  sentiment  with  you." 

44  Well,  I  suppose  you  might  term  it  a  sentiment.  I 
have  lived  in  this  cellar  so  long  that  I  could  not  find 
contentment  elsewhere.  I  should  be  like  the  prisoner 
who  begged  to  be  re-admitted  into  his  cell ;  and  these 
books  are  my  family.  I  part  with  one  sometimes — and 
so  does  a  man  bury  his  children  sometimes." 

"  Yes,  that's  true." 

The  visitor  began  to  browse  about,  with  the  slow 
motion  of  carelessness,  but  with  an  eye  of  cool  and  care 
ful  search. 

"  What  have  we  here  ?  " 

"  One  of  the  earliest  English  edititions  of  Plutarch," 
the  old  man  answered  with  strange  excitement,  and 
then  quickly  reached  out  to  take  the  volume. 

44  Let  me  look  at  it,"  said  the  visitor,  turning  about. 

44  Oh,  I  don't  think  you  will  like  it,  sir.  It  hasn't 
been  very  well  cared  for,  and  I  fancy  that  the  binding 
wasn't  very  good  in  the  first  place.  Indeed,  sir,"  he 
added,  becoming  more  eager  to  take  the  book,  "  I  don't 
believe  that  it  is  so  old  as  its  date  would  imply.  1689 
— I  don't  really  believe  it  is  so  old  as  that.  I  haven't 
looked  into  the  matter  very  closely,  not  being  much 
interested,  you  know,  but  I  don't  believe  there  was 


100  ODD  FOLKS. 

an  English  translation  of  Plutarch  so  far  back  as 
that." 

"The  deuce  there  wasn't,"  the  visitor  replied;  "how 
did  Shakespeare  manage  to  follow  Plutarch's  Julius 
Csesar  so  closely  ?  " 

"Well,  but  Shakespeare  may  have  been  a  better 
scholar  than  Ben.  Jonson  thought  he  was.  Indeed, 
sir,  great  men  have  begun  to  believe  that  Bacon  wrote 
the  plays, — at  least  the  classic  ones." 

"  Rats  !  "  said  the  visitor.  "  How  many  volumes  are 
there  of  this  ?  " 

"  Eight,  and  you  see  what  unwieldly  things  they  are." 

"  What  will  you  take  for  the  set  ?  " 

"  Really,  sir,  I  think  I  have  an  edition  that  will 
suit  you  much  better." 

"  Don't  want  any  other  edition ;  want  this.  What 
will  you  take  for  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  sell  it,"  he  said,  taking  the  volume 
from  the  visitor. 

"  It  isn't  so  rare,  old  man,  that  it  is  priceless.  I  will 
give  you  seventy -five  dollars." 

"  The  price  is  satisfactory  enough,  but  I  don't  care 
to  sell." 

"  But  don't  you  need  money  ?  Didn't  I  hear  a  man 
say  just  now  that  unless  you  pay  him  forty  dollars  to 
morrow,  steps  will  be  taken  to  turn  you  into  the 
street  ?  " 


HIS   SIXTEEN-EIGHTY-NINE.  101 

"  Yes,  that's  a  fact ;  yes." 

"  Then,  why  are  you  so  foolish  ?  " 

"My  dear  sir,  I  wouldn't  order  a  man  out  of  my 
house  for  the  world,  but  won't  you  please  go  away  ?  I 
am  sick  and  must  lie  down." 

"Yes,  I  will  go  away,  but  I  will  come  back  to-mor 
row." 

The  visitor  went  out  and  the  old  man,  gathering  up 
his  precious  volumes,  tenderly  placed  them  on  his  bed, 
and  then  laid  down  beside  them.  Hours  passed  and 
still  he  continued  to  lie  there.  Once  some  one  came 
in,  and  coughed  to  attract  his  attention,  but  he  did  not 
look  up.  He  dozed  off  into  a  troubled  dream,  and  was 
awakened  by  voices  in  the  "  joint."  He  got  up,  and, 
after  rubbing  his  dim  old  eyes,  recognized  two  acquaint 
ances. 

"  Hello,  Dorsey." 

"  Good  evening,  gentlemen." 

"You  may  well  say  evening  if  you  wish  to  refer 
to  the  lateness  of  the  hour." 

"  What  time  is  it  ?  " 

"  After  twelve." 

"  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late,"  the  old  man  said,  get 
ting  up  and  coming  forward. 

"  You  were  not  awake  to  hear  the  news." 

"What  news?" 

"  A  bank  just  up  the  street  was  robbed  of  fifteen 


102  ODD  FOLKS. 

thousand  dollars  this  evening.  But  I  don't  suppose  it 
concerns  you  much  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  that  I'm  shocked,  still  the  news 
is  interesting.  If  somebody  had  to  be  robbed  I  don't 
know  of  an  institution  that  is  more  able  to  lose  money 
than  a  bank.  It  is  much  better,  too,  than  if  an  old 
book  store  had  been  robbed.  Won't  you  come  back 
and  sit  down  ?  " 

"  No,  just  thought  we'd  drop  in  a  moment  and  look 
round.  Good  night." 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  first  thing  Dorsey  thought  of  the  next  morning, 
was  that  he  had  to  pay  his  rent  that  day.  But  he  had 
strong  hopes  that  he  might  make  enough  of  what  he 
termed  comparatively  indifferent  sales  to  raise  forty 
dollars ;  yet  the  morning  wore  away  and  no  one  came 
in.  Just  at  noon  the  collector  entered  the  place. 
"  Well,  have  you  got  forty  dollars  for  me  ?  " 
"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  haven't.  I  expected  some 
money  this  morning  but  it  didn't  come.  But  I  am  sure 
it  will  be  here  by  to-morrow.  Anything  I  can  do  for 
you,  sir?"  he  asked,  turning  to  a  man  who  had  just 
entered,  and  then  he  drew  back  for  he  recognized  the 
man  who  had  offered  seventy-five  dollars  for  Plutarch. 


HIS   SIXTEEN-EIGHTY-NINE.  103 

"  Yes,"  the  man  answered,  "  you  can  let  me  have 
those  books." 

"  But  I  told  you— 

"Never  mind  what  you  told  me.  Here  are  seventy- 
five  dollars,  nearly  enough  to  pay  two  months  rent. 
Come,  now,  don't  be  foolish.  You'll  soon  forget  the 
attachment  you  had  for  them.  You  don't  want  to  be 
set  out  in  the  street.  Here,  give  the  man  his  rent." 

"But  he  can't  put  me  out  under  a  month  and  by 
that  time  I'll  have  the  money." 

"Well,  but  what's  the  use  of  hanging  fire  over  a 
thing  that  must  be  done?  " 

A  long  discussion  followed.  The  would-be  purchaser 
was  persuasive  and  logical ;  the  old  man  finally 
yielded  in  a  sort  of  dreamy  way.  The  persistent  cus 
tomer  marched  off  with  his  books  and  the  collector 
went  away  with  his  rent. 

Old  Dorset's  eyes  were  more  than  ever  a  mildewed 
brown,  and  his  flowing  beard,  which  had  seemed  to  be 
kept  as  a  sort  of  religion,  was  tangled  as  no  creed 
ought  to  be.  Sometimes  he  would  mumble  as  if  talk 
ing  apologetically  to  some  one,  and  then  he  would 
break  out  as  if  in  a  fierce  argument.  Late  one  night 
he  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  room  when  an  odd 
and  cautious-looking  man  came  down  the  narrow  stair 
way. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  the  old  man  demanded,  and  then 


104  ODD  FOLKS. 

added,    when    the    visitor   halted:     "I  have  paid  the 
rent." 

"  Glad  of  it,"  the  visitor  answered. 

"Well,  but  why  do  you  come  back  here?  Is  it 
possible  that  another  month  has  passed  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about. 

"Didn't  you  come  around  here  this  morning  and 
collect  forty  dollars  from  me  ?  " 

"  I  never  saw  you  before." 

"Is  that  so?"  and,  then,  after  a  few  moments' 
silence,  during  which  he  rubbed  his  dim,  old  eyes,  he 
added  :  "  Well,  what  do  you  want  here  now? " 

"  Just  thought  I'd  drop  in  and  warn?  myself.  Didn't 
reckon  you'd  care." 

"  Of  course  I  don't,  but  let  me  see  if  you  are  a 
first  edition." 

The  fellow  laughed  and  said:  "I  reckon  I  am. 
That  is,  my  father  and  mother  always  said  I  was  the 
oldest  of  five  children." 

"  What's  your  date  ?  " 

"1850,  I  understand." 

"And  not  1689?" 

"Hah,  you  must  think  I'm  just  out  of  the  ark." 

"  Hardly  so  old  as  that,  but  when  were  you  first 
translated?  You  know  it  has  been  held  by  certain 
scholars,  or  I  may  say  alleged  scholars,  that  a  versatile 
monk  put  you  into  crude  English  before  the  art  of 


HIS   SIXTEEN-EIGHTY-NINE.  105 

printing  was  invented.  How  about  that — but,  pray 
pardon  me,  I  thought  for  a  moment  you  were  '  Plu 
tarch's  Lives.' '! 

"  Well,  now,  I  ain't  and  never  was  anybody's  life  but 
my  own." 

The  old  man  rubbed  his  brow  and  said:  "It  was  a 
long  time  before  I  could  believe  in  the  occult,  but  I  am 
becoming  a  full-fledged  mystic.  It  is  something  that 
all  sensible  men  must  come  to.  But  mysticism  is  too 
grand  to  be  grasped  at  once.  It  is  the  key  to  all  wis 
dom  ;  and  there  can  be  no  sorrow  when  all  men  are 
just  and  wise,  for  justice  relieves  the  wants  of  the  body 
and  wisdom  will  provide  against  grief." 

"  Have  you  got  anything  to  eat  handy  ?  "  the  visitor 
asked,  glancing  about. 

"  I  wish  I  had  Greek  wine  and  pomegranates,"  the 
old  man  answered,  "  but  I  haven't.  You  are  welcome, 
though,  to  what  I  have.  Here  is  a  beefsteak  pie,"  he 
added,  taking  a  plate  from  a  shelf  and  handing  it  to  the 
visitor.  "  You  see  I  still  keep  my  English  appetite." 

"  Thanks." 

The  fellow  seized  the  pie  and  began  eagerly  to  de 
vour  it.  The  old  man  stood  watching  him.  The  fel 
low's  eyes  bulged  out.  "  Got  any  water  ?  "  he  asked, 
almost  choked.  The  old  man  handed  him  a  leaking 
dipper  of  water.  "  I  am  old  fashioned  even  in  my 
drinking,"  he  said.  The  old  fellow  walked  back  to  his 


106  ODD  FOLKS. 

bed,  turned  despairingly  toward  the  door,  confusedly 
put  out  his  hands  before  him,  and  then,  wheeling  about 
and   facing   his   guest,  who  was   swallowing   the   last 
morsel  of  the  meat  pie,  said  in  tremulous  tones: 
"  I  thank  heaven  that  you  have  returned." 
"Good  enough,  but  as  I  never  was  here   before  I 
don't  see  how  I  could  have  returned." 

"  But  didn't  a  brisk  arid  heartless  business  man  give 
me  seventy-five  dollars  for  you?  " 

"If  he  gave  you  any  money  for  me  I  wish  you 
would  let  me  have  it." 

"Oh  my  1689!"  cried  the  old  man,  attempting  to 
fling  his  arms  about  the  fellow,  "  Oh,  my  Plutarch,  I 
will  never  part  with  you  again." 

"  What  kind  of  a  joint  have  I  struck?  " 
"You  have  come  home  and  you  will  never  leave  me 
again." 

"  Much  obliged  to  you  for  your  kindness  but  I've  got 
my  own  affairs  to  look  after.  It's  gettin'  along  toward 
mornin'  and  I  reckon  I'd  better  go." 

"  You  can  not  go,  my  Plutarch.     Ah,  what  binding, 
what  print.     There  are  none  like  you  these  days.     Tell 
me,  did  the  disturbed  elements  foretell  Cesar's  death  ? 
In  the  dreams  of  an  anxious  mind  did   the  fountain 
spurt  blood  ?  " 
"  I  give  it  up." 
"  But  did  Alexander  ride  the  fiery  horse  that  Philip 


HIS   SIXTEEN-EIGHTY-NINE.  107 

was  unable  to  master  ?  I  know  that  you  are  a  ro 
mancer,  and  that  you  have  talked  much  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  listening  to  your  own  musical  words,  but 
you  can  tell  an  old  worshipper  many  truths  that  you 
withheld,  even  from  Montaigne." 

"  Cap,  your  water  is  too  deep  for  me.  Let  me  get 
out."  The  old  man  was  standing  between  his  guest 
and  the  door. 

"  No,  you  are  not  going  to  leave  me." 

"I've  got  to  go.  Get  out  of  the  way,"  he  said,  at 
tempting  to  pass  the  old  man.  "  I  don't  want  to  stay 
down  here  with  a  crazj^man.  Let  me  by,  T  say.  Turn 
me  loose.  I'll  choke  the  life  out  of  you.  Get  away." 

The  old  man  fell  on  the  floor,  and  desperately  clung 
to  the  fellow's  knees. 

"  Turn  me  loose,  you  old  fool,  or  I'll  tramp  the  life 
out  of  you." 

The  old  man  uttered  a  loud  and  despairing  cry. 
Footsteps  on  the  stairway — police.  They  seized  the 
fellow;  they  knew  him — had  been  searching  for  him. 
He  was  the  bank  robber. 

The  old  man,  still  grieving  over  his  loss,  is  in  the 
asylum  at  Kankakee. 


BIG  HEP  AND  LITTLE  LADY. 


WHEN  the  superintendent  of  a  railway,  that  had  just 
been  built  through  Allen  county,  Kentucky,  published 
an  announcement  that  he  would  buy  all  the  cord-wood 
that  might  be  ricked  up  at  certain  places  along  his  road, 
the  news  flew  as  a  carrier  pigeon,  conveying  the  words 
of  promised  deliverance  from  the  cutthroat  mortgage 
of  the  crossroads  merchant.  The  country  was  exceed 
ingly  poor.  The  hillside  fields  were  trenched  with 
gullies,  and  the  gushing  rain-tide  had  washed  away  so 
much  of  the  soil  that  many  a  patch  of  land,  which  at 
its  best  was  capable  of  producing  only  nubbins,  would 
not  now  have  sprouted  a  black-eyed  pea.  Along  the 
creeks  there  was  strips  of  comparatively  fertile  land, 
but  they  were  subject  to  overflow  and  were  not,  even 
after  the  kindliest  season,  productive  of  sufficient  grain 
to  keep  their  owners  out  of  debt.  It  was  early  spring 
when  the  superintendent's  publication  was  received, 
and  instantly  there  was  an  unhitching  of  old  plow 
horses,  and  a  throwing  of  old  bull-tongue  plows  into 
the  fence  corners. 

It  was  like  a  call  to  arms  in  a  patriotic  community ; 
(108) 


BIG  HEP  AND  LITTLE  LADY.  109 

it  seemed  to  be  the  movement  of  a  single  impulse. 
Every  able-bodied  man  shouldered  his  axe  and  turned 
toward  the  "  big  woods,"  a  great  and  rugged  forest 
which  was  yet  the  common  property  of  mankind. 
Cabins  were  built,  and  patches  here  and  there  in  the 
woods  soon  bore  the  aspect  of  a  mining  camp. 

Hep  Brooks  was  one  of  the  first  men  to  build  a 
cabin.  He  was  known  as  Big  Hep  ;  and  he  was  a 
giant.  He  was  splendidly  proportioned,  and  Bradford 
Wellbanks,  an  old  circuit-rider  who  lost  his  life  recently 
while  attempting  to  save  a  worthless  fellow  from 
drowning,  often  pleasantly  remarked  that  he  would  bet 
his  saddle-bags  that  Big  Hep  could  outrun  a  buck  and 
kill  him  with  his  fist  after  he  caught  him.  Hep  was 
about  twenty-five  years  old,  and  although  he  was  a 
rather  good-looking  fellow,  had  never  spent  much  time 
in  the  society  of  women.  It  was  soon  remarked  that 
he  was  adorning  his  cabin  with  many  an  extra  touch, 
and  one  evening  a  neighbor  said  to  him  that  he  must 
be  thinking  of  making  some  woman  happy. 

"  I  am,"  he  answered. 

"  That's  right,  for  you're  gittin'  old  enough.  This 
is  a  mighty  fine  place  for  women  up  here  in  the  hills 
and  they  can  help  a  right  smart  chance  when  we  begin 
to  haul  the  wood  down  to  the  road.  When  air  you 
goin'  to  git  married?  " 

"  You  air  too  hard  for  me  now,"  said  Hep. 


110  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  'lowed  you  was  goin'  to  make 
some  woman  happy." 

"So  I  did,  but  makin'  a  woman  happy  don't  always 
mean  marry  in'.  This  cabin  " — pointing  with  pride  to 
the  hut — "  is  for  my  mother." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  that.  By  the  way  I  don't  be 
lieve  I  ever  seed  her." 

"  No,  I  reckon  not.  She  is  livin'  over  in  Barren 
county  with  my  brother  Jim  an'  never  has  been  out  to 
Allen.  You  know  I  ain't  been  livin'  here  but  about 
two  years ;  come  out  here  to  see  if  I  couldn't  git  a 
place  for  her,  but  it  'peared  like  the  harder  I  worked 
the  wus  times  got,  and  I  was  jest  about  to  give  up  and 
go  somewhar  else  when  this  wood  business  come  up. 
It  won't  take  me  long  now  to  knock  out  a  few  dol 
lars." 

"  I  reckon  not,  but  have  you  made  any  arrangements 
about  havin'  yo'  wood  hauled  down  to  the  road  ?  " 

"  That  was  about  the  only  thing  that  stood  in  my 
way,  not  havin'  airy  hoss,  but  I  have  agreed  to  pay 
Sim  Joyner  so  much  to  haul  it  out  and  rick  it  up  for 
me.  I've  got  to  strike  out  early  in  the  mornin'  atter 
mother." 

"  I  reckon  you'll  have  some  little  trouble  in  hirin'  a 
hoss  to  go  that  fur." 

"  Yes,  a  good  deal.  The  truth  is  I  kain't  git  a  hoss 
at  all,  but  I'll  fetch  her  all  right  enough." 


BIO  HEP  AND  LITTLE  LADY.  Ill 

Hep  set  out  earty  the  next  morning  while  his  neigh 
bors  were  eating  breakfast.  He  disappeared  down  the 
valley,  singing  his  one  tuneless  song : 

"  Ob,  the  old  raccoon  was  cbasecl  from  his  hole, 
And  he  couldn't  git  back  for  to  save  his  soul. 
He  tried  it  late  and  he  tried  it  soon, 
But  he  couldn't  git  back,  that  old  raccoon." 

Four  days  passed  before  they  heard  that  tuneless 
song  again,  and  then  they  heard  it  coming  up  out  of 
the  valley. 

"I  don't  see  his  mother  with  him,"  a  man  remarked, 
shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  "  Mebby  the  old  lady 
couldn't  walk  so  fur.  He's  got  a  pretty  big  bundle  of 
something  on  his  back." 

They  stood  speculating  until  Hep  came  up,  and  then 
they  saw  a  woman's  head  protruding  from  a  roll  of 
blanket  which  the  giant  carried  on  his  back.  Every 
one  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise  when  Hep 
placed  his  mother  in  a  hickory  sapling  chair  which  he 
had  made  for  her,  and  which  he  requested  some  one  to 
bring  from  the  cabin. 

"  Now  you  sit  right  here.  Little  Lady,  till  I  git  you 
suthin'  to  eat,"  said  the  giant.  "  You  see,"  he  pleas 
antly  added,  turning  to  his  neighbors,  "that  thar's  a 
good  deal  of  diffunce  in  our  size.  I  weigh  over  two 
hundred  and  Little  Lady  don't  weigh  but  ninety." 


112  ODD  FOLKS. 

•*  And  is  she  r'a'ly  yo'  mother?  "  some  one  asked. 

"  Indeed  I  am,"  the  little,  old  woman  spoke  up. 
"And  if  you  had  seed  Hep  onct  long  time  ago  you 
wouldn'ter  thought  he  would  be  much  when  he  growd 
up.  But  bless  us  all,  jest  look  at  him  now." 

How  sweet  and  pleased  her  old  face  was.  She  had 
that  peculiar  countenance  which  seems  to  come  as  an 
illumined  beauty  to  old  age — a  face  through  which  one 
catches  glimpses  of  a  patient  and  loving  soul.  She 
looked  like  a  mere  doll,  and  was  as  easily  amused  as  a 
child.  Big  Hep  brought  his  axe  and  showed  it  to  her, 
and  when  he  explained  that  he  had  experienced  some 
trouble  in  finding  one  large  enough  for  him,  she  seized 
the  arms  of  the  chair  and  laughed. 


CHAPTER  II. 

HEP'S  house  became  a  favorite  resort,  and  at  even 
ing  the  neighbors  would  gather  there  and  sing  religious 
songs.  They  knew  no  worldly  airs,  and  to  them  music 
was  the  handmaiden  of  the  gospel.  The  leader  of  the 
musical  exercises  was  a  girl  named  Lutie  Moore.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  a  man  who  owned  several 
teams,  and  was,  therefore,  high  in  the  social  grade. 
She  had  the  appearance  of  a  flirt,  and  it  was  known 


BIG  HEP  AND  LITTLE  LADY.  113 

that  she  had  smiled  upon  Rob  Turner,  as  hard  a  work 
ing  young  fellow  as  ever  lived,  and  then  refused  to 
marry  him,  although  he  begged  her  piteously  and  al 
though  he  was  a  hard-working  boy.  It  was  soon  dis 
covered  that  Big  Hep  was  smitten  with  her,  and  one 
Sunday  when  he  hired  one  of  her  father's  horses  and 
took  her  to  church,  at  least  ten  miles  distant,  the 
gossips  knew  that  a  marriage  or  a  refusal  would  be  the 
result.  Old  Miss  Beverly,  the  chief  of  gossips,  called 
on  Hep's  mother  that  Sunday,  and  the  impulse  to  gos 
sip  was  so  strong  within  her  that  she  disregarded  her 
usual  skirmishing  and  went  at  once  into  the  engage 
ment. 

"I  reckon  you  know  that  Hep's  gone  with  Lute 
Moore  to-day." 

"Yes,"  the  little,  old  woman  answered,  "but  I 
reckon  he'll  come  back." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  but  haven't  you  been  thinkin'  that 
he  mout  want  to  marry  her  ?  " 

"  The  only  thing  I've  thought  about  it  is  that  she 
would  have  to  search  a  mighty  long  time  before  she 
could  do  better." 

44 1  understand  that,  too,  but  ain't  you  afeered  she 
won't  have  him,  and  that  it  will  pretty  nigh  break  his 
heart?" 

44  He  has  a  mighty  big  heart,  Miss  Beverly." 

"  That's  true  enough,  but  big  hearts  air  ginerally  the 


114  ODD  FOLKS. 

easiest  to  break.  Look  at  Rob  Turner,  fur  instance. 
Thar  ain't  nobody  got  no  bigger  heart  than  he  has,  and 
thar  ain't  a  harder  workiu'  boy  in  all  this  country,  and 
now  look  at  him.  He  mopes  about  like  he  don't  kere 
whuther  the  price  of  wood  keeps  up  or  not.  If  I  had  a 
son — and  I  reckon  it's  a  blessin'  that  I  ain't — I  would 
hate  to  see  him  makin'  a  set  at  a  girl  like  Lute  Moore. 
I  would  jest  give  him  a  piece  of  sensible  advice.  I 
would  tell  him  to  be  keerful  of  women  that  thinks 
themselves  good  lookin'  an'  take  some  good,  honest  per 
son  that  thinks  more  of  other  folks  than  she  does  of 
herself.  I  would  tell  him  to  find  some  good  girl, 
makes  no  difference  if  she  was  a  little  older  than 
him,  and  marry  her.  I  have  been  mightily  inter 
ested  in  Hep  ever  sense  I  fust  seed  him,  and  I  do  so 
much  want  him  to  git  a  good  wife  whenever  he  do 
marry." 

"  Little  Lady,"  with  all  her  smallness  physically, 
and  beauty  born  of  a  sweet  and  patient  soul,  was  a 
woman,  and  while  Miss  Beverly  was  talking  this 
little  mother  mused:  "I  see  what  you  air  drivin' 
at,  Missie,  but  you  might  as  well  hush,  for  Hep  will 
never  marry  such  a  lookin'  busy-body  as  you  air. 
Why,  thar  wouldn't  be  no  livin'  in  the  house  with 

you." 

"Well,  I  must  go,"  said  Miss  Beverly,  rising.  "I 
thought  I  would  merely  drop  over  and  see  you  awhile. 


BIG  HEP  AND  LITTLE  LADY.  115 

I  wish — but  never  mind — "  She  was  now  standing  in 
the  door,  twisting  the  strings  of  her  gingham  sun- 
bonnet. 

"  What  were  you  goin'  to  wish?" 

"  Oh,  nuthin',  only  I  thought  that  if  you  cared  to 
speak  of  it,  you  might  tell  Hep  that  we  air  all  might'ly 
interested  in  him.  I  don't  think  I  ever  seen  a  young 
man  that  I  ever  was  more  interested  in  than  I  am  in 
him.  Good  mornin'." 

When  Hep  returned  from  church,  late  that  evening, 
his  mother  looked  at  him  closely,  as  if  she  were  search 
ing  for  evidences  of  unrequited  love ;  and  when 
he  had  sat  down  to  the  table  upon  which  his  dinner  had 
been  spread,  she  noticed  that  he  did  not  eat  with  his 
usual  relish. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Hep  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nuthiri',"  he  answered,  looking  up  surprised. 
"  What  makes  you  think  thar's  anything  the  mat 
ter?" 

"  I  didn't  think  you  eat  like  you  had  much  appetite, 
and  thar  is  the  dandelion  greens,  too." 

"  I  won't  try  to  fool  you,  Little  Lady,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "  I  will  jest  tell  you  exactly  what  is  the  mat 
ter.  I  love  Lutie  Moore." 

"  And  do  she  love  you,  my  son  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  kain't  find  out." 

"  Have  you  said  anything  to  her  about  it?" 


116  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  Not  yet.  I  have  been  tryin'  to  all  day,  but  some 
how  I  couldn't.  I'd  keep  on  lookin'  ahead  and  think 
that  when  I  got  thar  I  would  say  somethin',  but  I  kep' 
puttin'  it  off,  an'  puttin'  it  off,  till  here  I  am  an'  nuthin' 
ain't  been  said  yit." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  go  over  and  talk  to  her  ?  " 

"  Gracious,  no  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  She  would  think 
that  I  ain't  got  sense  enough  to  talk  fur  myself,  and 
that  would  settle  it  right  then  and  thar.  The  next 
time  the  folks  come  over  here  to  sing  I  will  walk  home 
with  her  and  say  somethin'  or  bust  a  hame-string,  as 
pap  uster  say." 

The  singing  party  met  that  very  night,  and  Hep 
walked  home  with  Lutie  Moore.  He  struggled  with 
himself  as  they  walked  along,  and  not  until  they  had 
almost  arrived  at  Moore's  cabin  could  he  summon  up 
sufficient  courage.  Finally,  in  a  sort  of  desperate  burst, 
he  exclaimed : 

"Stop  right  here  whar  you  air  and  let  me  say 
suthin'."  She  stopped  and  turned  her  face  toward  him. 
The  moon  was  shining. 

"  Miss  Lutie,"  said  he,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  somethin' 
that  I  have  tried  mighty  hard  to  say.  I  never  was 
much  of  a  hand  to  go  among  women,  for  the  reason 
that  I  never  was  much  interested  in  their  talk,  but  it's 
different  with  you.  It  don't  make  no  difference  what 
you  say,  I  am  interested  in  it ;  and  I  don't  believe  you 


BIG  HEP  AND  LITTLE  LADY.  117 

could  say  a  word  that  wouldn't  sorter  stir  me  up. 
What  have  you  got  to  say  to  that  ?  "  he  added,  his  des 
peration  giving  away  to  embarrassment. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

"  Wall,  I  mean  jest  this  here  !  I  love  you;  and  now 
what  have  you  got  to  say  to  that?  " 

"  I  say  that  I  am  glad  of  it." 

"Air  you  railly  !  "  he  exclaimed,  placing  his  hands  on 
her  head.  "  Air  you  sho  naff,  and  air  you  glad  enough 
to  love  me  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said  smiling,  and  the  moon  that  shone  full 
in  her  face  pointed  out  the  smile  to  him. 

He  scarcely  remembered  anything  else  that  night, 
except  that  he  hastened  home  and  told  his  mother  that 
he  was  almost  too  happy  to  live. 

"Lift  me  up  and  kiss  me,"  said  the  little,  old 
woman. 

He  got  up  the  next  morning  singing  his  one  tuneless 
song.  u  And  you  won't  forget  me  after  you  are  mar 
ried,  will  you  son  ?  "  the  little  woman  asked. 

He  sat  down,  looked  at  her  a  moment,  and  said  : 
"I  don't  see  what  could  have  put  that  into  yo'  little 
head.  I  love  that  girl  well  enough  to  die  for  her,  but 
I  couldn't  love  her  well  enough  to  forgit  you." 

The  gossips  soon  learned  of  Hep's  engagement,  and 
there  was  great  surprise  when  it  was  reported  that 
Lutie  was  "dead  in  love  "  with  him,  "And  her  father 


118  ODD  FOLKS. 

owns    so    many   teams,   too,"   one   woman   remarked. 
"  Sholy,  strange  things  do  happen  in  this  here  world." 


The  night  was  beautiful ;  the  wedding  was  to  take 
place  on  the  following  day.  Big  Hep  and  Lutie  sat  on 
a  log.  They  could  hear  "  Little  Lady  "  singing. 

"  Hep,"  said  the  girl,  "  we'll  be  so  happy  after  we 
air  married." 

"Yes,  the  happiest  of  anybody  in  the  world,"  he 
answered. 

"And  then  yo'  won't  have  no  trouble  in  gittin' 
hosses  to  haul  yo'  wood.  Say,  dear,  how  long  is  yo' 
mother  goin'  to  stay  with  you?  " 

"  Allus,"  Hep  proudly  answered. 

"  No,  that  mustn't  be.  I  like  her  well  enough,  but 
I'm  afeerd  she  would  make  me  tired." 

He  arose,  looked  down  upon  her  for  a  moment  and 
then  said  :  "And  if  that's  the  case,  I  reckon  I  would 
make  you  tired,  too.  I  worship  you — or  did  worship 
you— but  the  Lord  has  p'inted  out  my  duty.  Good 
night." 

"  But  wait,  Hep,  tell  me  that  we  air  to  be  married  in 
the  mornin'." 

"  Good-night,"  he  repeated. 

****** 
The  neighbors  that  arose  early  the  next  morning, 


BIG  HEP  AND  LITTLE  LADY.  119 

saw  Hep,  with  a  large  bundle  on  his  back,  going  down 
into  the  valley,  and  they  heard  the  words  of  his  tune 
less  song: 

"  Oh,  the  old  raccoon  was  chased  from  his  hole, 
And  he  couldn't  git  back  for  to  save  his  soul. 
He  tried  it  late  and  he  tried  it  soon, 
But  he  couldn't  git  back,  that  old  raccoon." 


AN  IVORY  SMILE, 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  following  sketch,  written  by  Col.  J.  McCloud, 
of  Kentucky,  was  recently  given  to  me  by  a  son  of  that 
well-known  gentleman : 

I  lived  in  Kentucky  and  owned  a  number  of  slaves. 
Among  them  was  an  enormous  man,  named  Amos.  I 
think  he  was  the  strongest  human  being  I  ever  have 
seen.  Once  when  I  was  a  boy  I  went  with  Amos  to  a 
circus.  During  the  performance  the  ring-master  an 
nounced  that  he  had  a  wonderful  mule.  "I  will  give 
this  mule  to  any  man  who  can  either  ride  him  or  lead 
him  around  the  ring."  Amos  arose.  I  plucked  his 
coat  and  excitedly  asked  what  he  was  going  to  do.  I 
asked  this,  although  I  knew  well  enough  what  was  on 
his  mind. 

"Chile,"  said  he,  "dar  ain't  no  man,  white  iiur 
black,  dat's  gwine  bluff  me  wid  er  mule  ;  "  and  before 
I  could  by  persuasion  restrain  him,  he  had  stalked  into 
the  ring.  The  mule  was  a  small  animal  and  depended 
for  success  upon  that  quality  which  so  well  serves  the 

(120) 


AN  IVORY  SMILE.  121 

small  man  and  the  politician — trickery.  Amos  turned 
to  the  ring-master  and  said : 

"  You  means  dat  I  kin  hab  dis  mule  ef  I  kin  ride  him 
ur  lead  him  ?  " 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  mean." 

"  Ah,  hah,  an'  does  you  mean  dat  ef  I  takes  dis  yere 
mule  outen  de  ring  I  kin  hab  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  can  take  him  out  of  the  ring  he  is  your 
property." 

Amos  seized  the  mule  and  I  don't  know  how,  but  in 
a  moment  had  him  on  his  back.  The  frightened  animal 
struggled,  but  Amos,  amid  the  wildest  applause,  carried 
him  out  of  the  ring. 

44  He's  mine,"  Amos  shouted  as  he  put  down  his 
burden. 

"  Not  so  fast,  my  good  fellow,"  the  ring-master  cried, 
quickly  following  him.  "  I  said  you  might  have  him  if 
you  could  lead  him  out  of  the  ring." 

"  An'  den  you  said  I  could  hab  him  ef  I  tuck  him 
out?" 

"Oh,  no,"  the  ring-master  answered,  taking  hold  of 
the  bridle.  "  I  said  if  you  could  lead  him  ;  but  now  to 
show  that  there's  nothing  mean  about  me,  I  will 
solemnly  swear  in  the  presence  of  these  good  people, 
that  I  will  give  you  the  elephant  if  you  take  him  on 
your  shoulder  down  to  the  river  and  give  him  a  bath." 

The  audience  roared  as  though  the  world's  greatest 


122  ODD  FOLKS. 

witticism  had  just  been  uttered,  and  Amos,  disgusted 
with  the  perfidy  of  showmen,  returned  to  his  seat. 

I  was  deeply  attached  to  Amos,  who,  my  father  as 
sured  me  was  my  individual  property  ;  and  I  used  to 
smile  over  the  absurdity  of  so  small  a  boy  owning  so 
large  a  man.  When  I  grew  up,  and  when  the  death  of 
my  father  gave  to  me  the  sad  inheritance  of  all  the 
slaves,  I  depended  on  Amos  as  a  sort  of  general  man 
ager.  He  was  so  faithful  and  had  so  apparent  an  affec 
tion  for  me,  that  in  gratitude  and  especially  in  a  Chris 
tian  prompting,  I  resolved  to  set  him  free.  So,  one 
day  just  before  Christmas,  I  called  him  as  he  was  cross 
ing  the  yard. 

"  Good  mawnin',  Mars  George ;  how  does  you  feel 
dis  mawnin',  sah  ?  " 

"  First-rate,  Amos.  In  fact,  I  feel  so  well  that  I 
have  decided  to  give  you  a  great  Christmas  present." 

"  Thankee,  sah,"  he  replied,  removing  his  hat  and 
bowing  low,  "an'  lemme  tell  you  dat  de  Lawd  ain't 
gwine  furgit  you  fur  dat.  Lawd  dun  said  He  is  mighty 
in  lub  wid  de  cheerful  giber,  an'  ef  you  ain't  one  I 
doan  know  who  is.  Look  yere,  Mars  George,  whut  it 
gwine  be?" 

"  Never  mind,  I'll  tell  you  when  Christmas  morning 
comes." 

"  Dat's  right  an'  proper,  sah,  but  somehow  I'd  like 
ter  hab  er  little  sorter  idee.  I  wan  ter  know  how  ter 


AN  IVORY  SMILE.  123 

shape  myself.  Man  'pear  like  he  wanter  be  s'prized, 
but  still  he'd  ruther  know  whut  he  gwine  be  s'prized 
erbout.  When  de  dog  trees  er  'possum  er  man  would 
like  ter  be  s'prized  ez  ter  whut  sort  o'  varment  dar  is 
up  dar,  still  he'd  ruther  know  whuther  it's  er  'possum 
ur  er  coon  'fo'  he  chops  down  de  tree." 

"  That's  all  right,  Amos,  but  you  go  ahead  and  cut 
down  the  tree  and  leave  it  to  me  to  provide  against 
disappointment." 

"  Wall,  ez  you  nebber  has  diserp'inted  me,  I'll  do 
dat.  I  got  up  ter  go  ober  in  de  woods,  sah,  an'  see 
erbout  hawlin'  up  some  back-logs  fur  Christmas.  Doan 
want  none  de  white  folks  ter  git  cold  on  dat  day,  I  as- 
sho  you.  Dar  ain't  nuthin'  dat  takes  de  brightness 
offen  Christmas  day  like  chilly  white  folks.  Good 
mawnin',  Mars  George." 

He  went  away,  singing  the  blithe  song  of  a  light 
heart.  He  was  a  giant  but  he  was  a  child. 

Before  daylight,  one  morning  shortly  afterward, 
while  I  was  yet  in  bed,  a  house  servant  tapped  on  the 
door  and  told  me  that  Amos  wanted  to  see  me.  "  Tell 
him  to  come  in,"  I  answered.  The  giant,  black  in  the 
dark  shadows  of  the  dim  lamp-light  and  the  early 
morning,  entered  the  room  and  stood  near  my  bedside. 
There  was  the  sudden  gleam  of  an  ivory  smile,  then  a 
low,  musical  laugh  and  the  warm  tones  of  a  "good 
mawnin'.  Mars  George." 


124  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  Well,  Amos,  what  do  you  want  this  time  of  day  ?  " 

"  Dat's  whut  I  come  ter  tell  you,  sah.  I  woke  up 
'bout  midnight,  an'  'fo'  de  Lawd  I  couldn't  go  ter  sleep 
ergin  fur  'lay  in'  dar  worry  in'." 

"What  about?" 

"  Wall,  sah,  jes  dis :  I  wuz  wonderin'  whut  in  de 
worl'  you  gwine  gib  me  fur  dat  Christmus  present. 
Now  I  know  you  gwine  turn  ober  wid  one  dem  flounces 
de  white  folks  has,  an'  say  I'se  foolish  an'  ain't  got  no 
sense,  an'  I  'low  mebbe  you'd  be  right  ef  you  did  say 
so,  but  I  jest  couldn't  he'p  it,  Mars  George." 

But  I  did  not  turn  over  with  one  of  those  flounces 
that  the  "  white  folks  "  have  ;  I  reached  out  and  took 
his  hand.  "  My  poor  child,"  said  I,  "  my  poor  child 

"  and  I  really  could  say  nothing  else.  He  broke 

down.  The  giant  was  on  his  knees. 

"  Oh,  you  calls  me  er  chile,  when  it  wa'n't  but  de 
udder  day  dat  I  toted  you  in  my  arms,  showing  you  de 
geese  swimmin'  in  de  pond,  an'  now  you  is  er  gre't  big 
man  an'  calls  me  chile.  Ole  Marster's  time  does  fly 
monstrus  fast  when  de  little  toddler  o'  yistidy  terday 
takes  you  by  de  han'  like  he  gwine  lead  you,  an'  calls 
you  chile.  But  I  wush  you  would  tell  me  whut  dat 
present  gwine  be.  It  doan  'pear  like  I  kin  stand  it  no 
longer,  Mars  George."  With  the  tenderness  of  a 
mothers  touch  his  hand  stroked  my  hair.  "  Tell  me 
jest  dis  time,  Mars  George,  an'  I  won't  ax  you  no  mo'." 


AN  IVORY  SMILE.  125 

"  Amos,  you  have  only  two  more  days  to  wait,  and  I 
don't  believe  that  it  would  be  real  kindness  to  tell  you 
now." 

"Wall,'sah,"  he  said,  slowly  arising  to  his  feet,  "it 
will  hatter  go,  I  reckon.  Ain't  dar  er  jug  in  dat  closet, 
sah  ?  Dat  one  right  dar  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"Wall,  would  you  mind  ef  I  wuz  ter  tilt  it  up  ez  er 
sort  o'  good  mawnin'  ter  dis  new-bo'n  day,  sah?" 

"Help  yourself,  Amos." 

"I  thanks  you,  I  does.  Ef  dar's  any  thin'  dat 
smooths  out  de  wrinkles  o'  er  diserp'iritment,  it's  one 
deze  fine  articles  o'  licker." 

He  drew  out  the  jug  and  tilted  a  long  good  morning 
to  the  new-born  day,  and  then,  slowly  wiping  his  mouth 
with  the  back  of  his  hand,  declared  that  he  was 
strengthened  against  the  trials  of  another  season  of  dis 
appointment. 

He  did  not  again  speak  of  the  present  until  early 
Christmas  morning.  Then  he  came  and  tapped  on  my 
bedroom  door. 

"  Mars  George,  oh,  Mars  George." 

"  Is  that  you,  Amos  ?  " 

"Yas,  sah,  an'  I  come  ter  'mind  you  dat  Chris'mas 
done  come." 

"I  know  that,  Amos." 

"  Yas,   sah,   I   'lowed  you   did,   but   I   wuz   sorter 


126  ODD  FOLKS. 

skeered  dat  ole  Satan  rnout  put  sutliin'  in  yo'  way  ter 
make  you  furgit  it." 

"  You  haven't  known  him  to  put  many  things  in  my 
way  to  make  me  forget  promises,  have  you?" 

"  No,  sah,  but  still  you  kain't  nebber  tell  what  Satan 
gvvine  do.  De  Good  Book  say  he  allus  pokin'  round 
seekin'  whut  he  kin  'vower." 

"Well,  I'll  be  out  pretty  soon,  and  give  you  the 
present." 

"  All  right,  sah,  but  you  ain't  gwine  turn  ober  an'  go 
ter  sleep  ergin,  is  you  ?  " 

"No,  I'm  getting  up  now;"  and  then  I  heard  him 
mutter:  "thank  de  Lawd  fur  dat." 

There  had  been  so  much  speculation  among  the  ne 
groes  as  to  what  Amos'  present  was  to  be,  that  I  was 
greeted  by  nearly  every  man,  woman  and  child  on  the 
plantation  when  I  stepped  out  upon  the  veranda.  I 
shall  never  forget  that  morning.  The  sun  was  rising. 
Far  in  the  west  the  loitering  stars  were  fading  one  by 
one,  and  above  them  hung  the  quartered  moon,  stripped 
of  her  majesty  and  paled  by  the  brightening  glory  of 
the  morn.  Far  down  the  creek,  where  the  lurking 
shadows  hid  under  the  bending  willow  boughs,  the 
rushing  waters  played  a  deep-toned  symphony,  and  in 
the  woods  a  tired  dog,  barked  unheeded,  where  he  had 
"treed"  at  midnight. 

"  Amos,"  I  said,  stepping  forward. 


AN  IVORY  SMILE.  127 

"  Yas,  Mars  George,"  he  answered,  bowing. 

"  I  promised  you  a  Christmas  present,  and  in  view  of 
my  great  attachment,  you,  with  reason,  supposed  that 
it  was  to  be  something  to  be  valued  far  above  the  ordi 
nary  gift." 

"  Yas,  Mars  George." 

"Amos,  I  am  going  to  give  you  something  which 
many  of  the  world's  greatest  men  have  died  for,  and 
for  which  any  great  man  would  shed  his  blood.  Amos, 
I  give  you  freedom." 

He  did  not  bound  into  the  air,  as  I  had  expected ; 
he  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  and 
quietly  said : 

"I  'lowed  you  gwine  gimme  dat  'possum  dog." 

"  What !  You  old  rascal,"  I  exclaimed,  "  would  you 
rather  have  a  dog  than  your  freedom  ?  " 

He  looked  up  and  thus  replied:  "  Er  ole  man  kin 
hab  comfort  wid  er  'possum  dog,  sah,  but  when  free 
dom  comes  ter  er  ole  man  it  makes  him  feel  foolish." 

"  Amos,  you  are  not  so  old.  I  will  give  you  two 
hundred  dollars,  and  you  can  go  away  and  be  a  free 
man.  Although  I  am  deeply  attached  to  you,  yet  I 
would  not  advise  you  to  stay  here.  Come,  and  I  will 
give  you  the  money." 


128  ODD  FOLKS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

YEARS  passed,  and  the  war  came.  I  went  as  a  cap 
tain  into  the  Confederate  army.  I  shall  say  but  little 
of  my  military  career,  for  there  is  but  a  small  part  of  it 
that  concerns  this  narration.  While  on  a  raid  in  Ken 
tucky  I  was  captured.  A  number  of  depredations  had 
been  committed  upon  Union  men,  and  I  was  charged 
with  these  wanton  outrages.  I  was  innocent,  but,  un 
fortunately,  had  no  proof  at  my  command.  I  was 
court-martialed  and  sentenced  to  be  shot.  My  captors 
were  men  who  knew  me — most  of  them  were  my 
neighbors,  and  despised  me  for  not  having  taken  sides 
with  them. 

The  night  was  intensely  cold.  Under  a  tree  I  lay, 
bound  with  a  rope.  There  were  no  tents;  the  com 
mand  was  under  marching  orders.  There  were  no 
fires  ;  there  was  nothing  but  gloom  and  a  freezing  at 
mosphere.  One  of  my  guards  was  a  man  who  owned  a 
small  farm  near  mine.  I  had  done  him  favors. 

"Mills,"  said  I — he  was  standing  near  me — "  Mills, 
this  war  business  is  very  serious,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  for  traitors,"  he  answered. 

"  That's  all  right,  Mills  ;  but  you  shouldn't  talk  that 


AN  IVORY  SMILE.  129 

way  to  me  simply  because  I  held  an  opinion  opposite 
to  your  own." 

"  My  opinion  is  the  one  held  by  the  State,"  he  re 
plied.  "  You  must  remember  that  Kentucky  didn't  go 
out  of  the  Union.  Therefore,  you  are  not  only  a 
traitor  to  the  general  government,  but  a  traitor  to  your 
own  commonwealth." 

"  You  look  at  it  that  way,  and  perhaps  you  are  right, 
but  I  was  born  in  Virginia  and  Virginia  has  gone  out. 
I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  we  made  a  mistake.  As 
for  myself,  I  should  hate  to  see  this  country  dis 
rupted." 

"  Yes,  it  seems  so,"  he  sarcastically  answered.  "  The 
certainty  of  being  shot  at  daylight  has  a  tendency  to 
make  a  man  thoughtful  at  midnight." 

«  Mills." 

"  Well ;  but  don't  talk  so  loud.  You  are  supposed 
to  keep  silent ;  but  what  were  you  going  to  say?  " 

"  I  was  going  to  say  that  I  dont  want  to  be  shot  at 
daylight." 

"  Oh,  you  were.  How  did  so  strange  a  thought 
occur  to  you  ?  " 

"  It  occurred  to  me  in  a  most  natural  way.  Now, 
just  change  places  with  me  and — " 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  I   mean    that  you    just   suppose   yourself  in   my 

fix." 

9 


130  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  My  imagination  isn't  that  strong.  At  school,  you 
know,  I  was  always  a  matter-of-fact  sort  of  fellow. 
You  were  the  imaginative  boy  of  the  class." 

"  Yes,  and  that's  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  don't  relish 
the  idea  of  being  shot  at  daybreak.  It  strikes  me  that 
if  T  were  in  your  position  and  you  in  mine,  I  would  do 
something  for  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  when  a  man's  fancy  is  wrought  up,  as 
yours  must  be,  anything  is  likely  to  strike  him." 

"  Mills,  don't  you  remember  that  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  my  father  your  brother  might  have  gone  to  the  pen 
itentiary  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  what's  that  got  to  do  with  this  affair  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  that  gratitude  would  arise  and  an 
swer  that  question." 

"  That  was  very  well  said,  but  you  must  know  that 
gratitude  rarely  keeps  a  man  from  being  shot  at  sun 
rise.  I  gad,  it  rarely  keeps  him  from  starving  to  death. 
There  is  no  gratitude,  captain." 

"  There  may  not  be  with  some  people." 

"I  mean  that  no  man  is  grateful  enough  to  risk  his 
life.  But  before  you  go  any  farther,  let  me  say  that  it 
would  have  been  better  had  that  brother  of  mine  gone 
to  the  pen." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Well,  he's  in  the  rebel  army." 

"Mills,"   I  said,  after  a  few  moment's  silence,  "if  it 


AN  IVORY  SMILE.  131 

were  not  for  one  thing,  to-morrow  morning. could  not 
strike  so  great  a  terror  to  my  heart.'' 

"  What's  that  ?  " 

"  I  am  engaged  to  marry  Mary  Caldwell." 

"  Handsome  girl,  but  she'll  soon  forget  you." 

"  I  wish  I  were  untied." 

"  Yes,  I  reckon  you  would  like  to  take  to  your  heels." 

"  I  would  run  away,  but  not  until  I  had  knocked  you 
down." 

"  Good  boy ;  but  I  reckon  you'd  better  stop  talking 
now  and  go  to  sleep.  You  want  to  be  in  good  trim, 
you  know,  for  the  devil's  dress  parade." 

He  walked  off  a  short  distance  and  sat  down,  I  im 
agined,  for  I  could  not  see.  I  wondered  what  time  it 
was,  and  just  then  I  heard  Mills  say,  in  answer  to  an 
inquiry,  that  it  must  be  about  four  o'clock.  I  heard 
something  move  on  the  ground  near  me,  and  then  there 
came  a  whisper  that  thrilled  my  heart : 

"  Doan  say  er  word,  Mars  George— I'se  yere." 

Then  I  felt  myself  slowly  dragged,  and  then  I  was 
lifted  from  the  ground  and  carefully  carried  away  in 
the  deepened  darkness  of  the  thick  woods. 

"Does  you  know  me?"  came  another  whisper. 

"  Yes  ;  God  bless  you." 

"  Hush.  Let  me  git  you  round  on  my  back  an'  den 
we'll  be  all  right." 

He  seemed  to  be  running,  especially  after  he  struck 


132  ODD  FOLKS. 

a  path,  and  shortly  afterwards  the  raking  boughs  of  the 
trees  assured  me  that  we  were  again  in  the  thick  woods. 

"Put  me  down  and  untie  me,"  I  whispered. 

"  Hush." 

He  hastened  along,  going  faster  and  faster.  He 
crossed  a  frozen  stream  and  began  to  climb  a  hill. 

"  I  can  put  you  down  now,"  he  said,  after  a  long 
time.  He  put  me  down  and  cut  the  rope  that  bound 
me.  I  was  so  stiff  and  sore  that  I  could  scarcely  walk. 

The  grayish  advance  of  dawn  was  marching  down 
the  hillside  when  we  halted.  Old  Amos  turned  to 
me.  Again  there  was  the  sudden  gleam  of  an  ivory 
smile. 

"  Mars  George,  I  forgibs  you,  sah,  fur  not  makin' 
me  er  present  o'  dat  'possum  dog.  You  gib  me  ez  er 
Chris'mas  present  er  freedom  what  de  Lawd  has  per 
mitted  me  ter  enjoy ;  and  now,  sah,  on  dis  Chris'mas 
mawnin " 

"This  is  Christmas,  Amos;  I  had  not  thought  of 
it." 

"  Yas,  an'  I  gives  you  yo'  freedom  ez  er  present. 
You'll  find  er  hoss  in  dat  little  stable  down  yander, 
sah.  Good  bye,  and  may  de  Lawd  bless  you." 


OLD  JOBLEY. 


OLD  JOBLEY  was  always  accompanied  by  a  deaf  and 
dumb  boy,  his  grandson.  The  only  word  the  boy  could 
utter  and,  so  far  as  any  one  could  discover,  the  only 
word  he  could  hear  was  "  Zib."  Sometimes,  and  par 
ticularly  at  early  morning  when  he  felt  disposed  to  be 
loquacious,  he  would  run  up  to  the  old  man  and  cry 
"  zib,  zib,  zib."  Then  it  was  known  that  he  was  moved 
by  the  cheering  influences  of  the  season,  or  that  the 
currents  of  his  small  and  silent  life  were  smooth  and 
of  pleasant  gliding. 

What  a  drunkard  old  man  Jobley  was  !  Yes,  so 
much  of  a  drunkard  that  people  said  that  had  he  not 
wasted  his  life  with  drink  he  surely  would  have  gone 
to  Congress.  What  a  fallacy.  A  man  of  an  ordinary 
mind  gets  drunk  and  says  foolish  things  that  are  sud 
den  enough  and  strange  enough  to  be  interesting,  and 
people  say  that  liquor  is  at  its  old  trick  of  blighting  a 
great  intellect.  Jobley  was  a  man  of  pretty  fair  sense, 
it  is  true,  and  though  he  might  have  gone  to  Congress 
— for  many  shadowy  minds  have  gone  thither — yet  he 
could  not  have  become  a  statesman,  even  though  there 

(133) 


134  ODD  FOLKS. 

never  had  been  distilled  a  drop  of  anything  that  would 
make  a  man  forget  his  dignity.  But  how  he  did  like 
to  sit  around  and  talk  about  what  he  would  have  been 
had  he  never  drunk  liquor  ;  and  he  always  made  it  out 
that  he  surely  would  have  been  rich. 

During  his  whole  life  he  had  lived  on  a  hillside 
farm,  and  from  what  source  his  riches  could  have  come 
no  one  in  the  community  was  sufficiently  imaginative 
to  surmise.  The  old  man  was  a  periodical  debaucher, 
and  whenever  he  got  off  a  spree  he  invariably  declared 
it  to  be  his  last. 

"I  simply  won't  waste  my  life  in  any  such  a  way," 
he  would  declare.  "  I  do  quit  for  five  months  at  a 
time,  and  a  man  that  can  quit  that  long  can  quit  for 
ever.  Just  watch  me,  now  ;  you  just  keep  your  eye  on 
the  old  man  and  hell  show  you  what  firmness  is. 
Won't  he  Zib?" 

"  Zib,  zib,"  the  boy  would  reply. 

When  the  old  fellow  was  getting  well  after  a  spree, 
the  boy  always  took  care  of  him.  The  old  man's  wife 
had  no  patience  with  such  ailments. 

"  He  needn't  expect  me  to  wait  on  him,"  she  would 
say.  "  Heaven  knows  I  was  worn  out  with  him  years 
and  years  ago.  He  ruined  my  life,  gracious  knows. 
It's  a  good  thing  that  poor  little  child  don't  understand 
things,  but  how  he  can  love  an  old  drunkard  is  more 
than  I  can  see." 


OLD    JOBLEY.  135 

"If  you  had  been  more  patient  with  him  years  ago  he 
might  not  have  been  so  bad,"  a  privileged  neighbor 
once  remarked.  "  There  is  such  a  thing  as  curing  a 
man  by  gentleness.  I  know  that  my  George  used  to 
get  drunk,  but  I  shamed  him  out  of  it  before  it  took 
much  of  a  hold  on  him.  I  didn't  scold  him— I  treated 
him  so  kindly  that  his  conscience  kept  him  sober." 

"  Oh  you  needn't  talk  to  me  about  conscience.  A 
drunkard  hasn't  got  any." 

"  After  a  while  may  be  not,  but  he  has  at  first.  I 
know  that  my  George  used  to  suffer  awfully  in  mind, 
and  when  I'd  come  into  the  room  he'd  seem  to  be  afraid 
to  look  at  me— afraid  I'd  scold  him— but  I  wouldn't 
let  on  that  I  thought  he'd  done  wrong.  You  ought  to 
have  tried  that  plan,  for  I  believe  that  many  a  man  has 
been  saved  that  way." 

"That's  all  nonsense.  The  whippin'  post  is  the 
thing." 

"  Well,  I've  tried  that  plan  and  you  haven't,  and  my 
husband  is  a  sober  man  and  yours  isn't.  That's  all 
I've  got  to  say.  Good  day." 

Seven  months  had  passed  and  old  Jobley  was  still 
sober.  One  evening,  sitting  by  the  log  fire  with  Zib  on 
his  knee,  he  spoke  of  his  long  period  of  abstinence. 

"  It's  nothin'  to  boast  about,"  his  wife  said,  shaking 
a  cat  out  of  a  chair  and  sitting  down.  "  Seven  months 
indeed !  My  father  was  never  drunk  in  his  life,  and 


136  ODD  FOLKS. 

here  you  brag  because  you've  been  sober  seven 
months." 

"  No,  I'm  not  exactly  braggin',  mother,  but  I'm  sorter 
congratulatin'  myself." 

"Well,  you'd  better  not  holler  till  you  get  out  of  the 
woods." 

"No  use  to  holler  at  all  then,  Martha.  But  if  you 
holler  before  you  get  out  of  the  woods  somebody  may 
come  and  help  you  out.  How's  that  Zib  ?  " 

The  boy  did  not  look  up  and  the  old  man  shouted 
"Zib!"  and  the  boy  looked  up  quickly  and  replied, 
"  Zib,  Zib." 

At  the  breakfast  table  the  next  morning  the  old  man 
said: 

"  Martha,  me  and  Zib  are  goin'  out  to  the  post  office 
this  mornin'  for  I  believe  there  must  be  a  letter  for  us. 
Heigh  ?  " 

"You  don't  believe  nothin'  of  the  sort.  You  just 
want  to  go  there  and  get  drunk ;  that's  exactly  what 
you  want,  or  you  wouldn't  go  such  a  cold,  snowy  day 
as  this." 

"There  you  go,"  the  old  man  replied;  "you  are  the 
most  suspicious  creature  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  Why, 
if  I  was  as  suspicious  as  you  I  wouldn't  believe— 
wouldn't  believe  the  Bible,  even.  Let  me  tell  you  one 
thing  right  here;  there  ain't  money  enough  in  this 
county  to  put  a  drop  of  liquor  in  me.  Do  you  under- 


OLD  JOBLEY.  137 

stand  ?  Not  money  enough  in  this  whole  county.  I'm 
goin'  out  there,  and  if  there  ain't  no  letter  for  me  I'm 
com  in'  right  straight  back.  Now  mark  what  I  tell  you 
— right  straight  back." 

Off  they  went  on  the  roan  mare — the  gray  old  man 
and  the  deaf  and  dumb  boy.  The  day  was  intensely 
cold,  with  a  spiteful  spitting  of  snow.  A  log  fire 
crackled  in  the  back  room  of  the  general  store  and 
post  office,  and  a  loud  company  was  gathered  there. 
Old  Jobley,  with  the  boy  on  his  knee,  sat  for  a  time 
listening  to  the  stories  he  had  often  heard  before. 
"Lem,"  he  said,  speaking  to  the  postmaster,  "it  struck 
me  last  night  that  there  must  be  a  letter  here  for 
me." 

"  Why,  who  on  earth  would  waste  time  a  writin'  to 
you?"  Pud  Perdue  cried. 

"Never  mind  about  that,  Pud,"  the  old  man  an 
swered.  "  Bet  I  get  ten  letters  to  your  one." 

"Bet  neither  one  of  you  never  did  get  ten  letters,"  a 
red-eyed  fellow  shouted. 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  I  'lowed  last  night  there  was  a  letter  here  for  me,  and 
I  wish  you'd  see  if  there  is,  Lem." 

"  No  use  lookin',  Jobley,  for  I  know  there  ain't,"  Lem 
replied. 

"  Well,  then,  I  reckon  about  all  I've  got  to  do  is  to 
go  home." 


138  ODD  FOLKS. 

"Oh,  don't  be  snatched,"  said  the  red-eyed  fellow, 
"  we're  goin'  to  open  a  kag  of  nails  in  a  minit." 

"  You  can  go  home  when  you  can't  go  nowhere  else," 
Lem  remarked  with  a  quotation  from  the  time-honored 
lore  of  the  backwoods. 

44  Yes,  I  guess  that's  so,  but  I  told  the  old  woman  I'd 
be  right  back." 

"And  of  course  she  knowed  you  were  lyin',"  said 
Pud. 

44  Sorter  seemed  like  she  did,"  the  old  man  replied. 
"  Say,  boys,  it  has  been  seven  months  since  I  touched 
a  drop." 

44  Oh,  come  now,"  Lem  protested. 

44  Yes,  I'll  swear  to  it.  Seven  months ;  and  it  strikes 
me  that  a  man  ought  to  gather  up  pretty  good  control 
of  himself  in  that  length  of  time." 

44  Seems  like  he  ought,"  said  the  red-eyed  fellow. 

44  There  are  times,"  remarked  the  old  man,  "  when  a 
little  liquor  does  a  man  a  heap  of  good." 

44 1  reckon  you're  right." 

44  Say,  Lem,  draw  us  off  some  in  that  pint  cup." 


When  old  Mrs.  Jobley,  after  an  anxious  night  of 
waiting,  opened  the  door  at  early  morning,  she  saw  the 
roan  mare,  with  snow  on  her  back,  standing  at  the  gate. 

The  neighbors  turned  out  to  search  the  woods,  and 


OLD   JOBLEY.  139 

at  noontime  they  came  upon  the  old  man  lying  in  the 
snow;  and  the  boy  was  crouched  down  beside  him,  with 
his  face  hidden  in  the  folds  of  his  grandfather's  coat. 
They  saw  at  once  that  the  old  fellow  was  dead.  A 
man  touched  the  little  fellow  and  cried : 

"Zib!" 

But  the  child  did  not  look  up. 


OLD  BILLY. 


RAIN  came  in  dashes.  It  was  like  the  angry  spitting 
of  a  cornered  cat.  The  landscape  was  dreary:  the 
farmhouses  seemed  as  blotches  of  wretchedness — the 
train  roared  toward  Chicago.  There  were  not  many 
passengers.  Some  of  them  were  nodding,  others  sat  in 
gloomy  resignation,  but  there  were  three  men  who  were 
inclined  to  be  prankish.  These  three  men,  Brooks, 
Adams  and  Cooper,  were  actually  laughing,  at  one  of 
the  oldest  of  jokes,  doubtless,  and  a  gaunt  old  fellow, 
wise  enough  to  be  miserable,  was  frowning  on  them  in 
sour  disapproval  when  the  train  stopped  at  a  station. 
A  woman,  with  a  bundle  almost  as  large  as  a  feather 
bed,  bumped  her  way  off,  and  a  comical-looking  old 
fellow  nodded  and  "  ducked  "  his  way  on.  What  a  pe 
culiar  old  fellow  he  did  appear  to  be,  with  his  squint 
ing  eyes  set  so  close  together  and  with  his  hook-nose 
shaped  so  much  like  a  scythe.  His  type  is  not  found 
in  old  countries — quiet  self  assurance  in  homespun 
clothes  exists  only  in  America. 

"  What  have  we  picked  up  now  ?  "  said  Brooks. 

"  The  governor  of  the  state,  perhaps,"  Adams  an- 
(140) 


OLD  BILLY.  141 

swered,  and  then  added  :  "  Cooper,  go  and  ask  that 
old  fellow  to  explain  himself." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  he  owes  me  an  explana 
tion,"  Cooper  replied,  "  but  if  you  say  so  I'll  go  and  tell 
him  that  you  want  to  see  him." 

"  All  right,  go  and  tell  him  to  come  down  here  and 
make  himself  sociable." 

Cooper  told  the  old  fellow  that  he  was  wanted,  and 
he  good  humoredly  came  back  and  joined  the  friends. 

"You  looked  lonesome  up  there,"  said  Brooks,  "and 
we  didn't  know  but  you  might  be  willing  to  enter  into 
a  sort  of  reciprocity  with  us." 

"  Much  obleeged,"  the  old  fellow  replied,  squinting 
comically. 

"  Where  are  you  from  ?  "  Adams  asked. 

"Wall,"  he  answered,  pulling  at  his  thin,  streaky 
beard,  "  my  home  is  down  yan  in  Kaintucky,  sah. 
Come  up  here  in  Tndiany  to  see  my  married  daughter 
that  lives  back  yander  a  piece.  Hearn  her  husband 
wa'n't  treatin'  her  very  well  and  I  'lowed,  I  did,  that 
I'd  come  up  and  maul  him  awhile.  I  transacted  my 
business  with  him  and  I  reckon  it's  all  right  now." 

"  What's  your  name  ?" 

"  Old  Billy." 

"Which  way  are  you  going  now?  "  Cooper  asked. 

"  Thiser  way,"  he  answered,  pointing  forward. 

"  Yes,  so  I  see." 


142  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  Glad  of  it,  sah.  I'm  always  glad  to  1'arn  that  a 
person  aint  blind.  I  'lowed  I'd  go  up  here  to  Chicago 
and  see  how  all  them  rascals  are  gittin'  along.  Rascals 
tickle  me  might'ly." 

"  There  isn't  fun  enough  in  this,"  Brooks  adroitly 
whispered,  and  then  said  aloud:  "Well,  Old  Billy 
you  say  you  live  in  Kentucky  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sah,  in  Allen  county." 

"  Well,  then,  tell  us  a  story.  I  have  heard  that 
Allen  county  is  full  of  yarns." 

"I  don't  know  any  story.  You  don't  know  Ab 
Starbuck,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  what  about  him  ?  " 

"Nothin',  only  he  was  about  the  toughest  man  in 
Kaintucky.  And  mean !  Thar  wa'n't  nuthin'  too 
mean  for  him  to  do.  One  night  over  on  Big  Sandy  he 
rid  into  a  meetin'  house  durin'  a  revival  and  shot  out 
the  lights  and  left  the  mourners  thar  in  the  dark.  Oh, 
he  was  bad,  and  when  he  got  on  the  rampage  folks  had 
to  git  out  of  his  way.  When  he  come  to  town  busi 
ness  jest  nachully  suspended.  I  never  shall  furgit  one 
day  when  he  come  to  Scottville.  A  good  many  of  the 
merchants  closed  their  doors  when  they  hearn  that  he 
had  come,  and  men  were  pretty  scarce  on  the  street,  I 
tell  you.  Wall,  Ab  he  come  a  stalkin'  along  the  side 
walk  with  a  couple  of  pistols  in  his  belt,  and  a  bowie 
knife  in  his  boot  leg.  Old  men  got  out  of  his  way,  and 


OLD  BILLY.  143 

little  children  got  off  the  sidewalk  down  in  the  mud  to 
let  him  pass.  Wall,  jest  about  the  time  he  was 
the  worst  lookin' — jest  atter  he  had  kicked  a  dog  out 
into  the  street,  here  come  an  old  nigger  man,  walkin' 
along,  meetin'  him.  The  nigger  didn't  git  out  of  the 
way — he  walked  right  into  Ab  Starbuck — bumped 
against  him.  Ab  jumped  back.  He  was  too  much  as 
tonished  to  think  about  his  bowie  knife,  and  he  hauled 
off  with  his  monstrus  fist  and  hit  the  nigger  in  the 
mouth.  The  old  man  staggered.  He  wiped  his  bloody 
lips  with  one  hand,  and  began  to  feel  about  at  arm's 
length  in  front  of  him  with  the  other ;  and  then,  in  a 
voice  as  gentle  as  a  child's,  he  said : 

"  '  Boss,  you  must  skuze  me,  sah;  I'se  blind.' 
"  '  My  God,  old  man  !  I  didn't  know  that ! '  Ab 
cried,  and  then  stood  with  his  hand  restin'  on  the 
nigger's  shoulder.  '  Old  man,'  he  said,  '  I  wouldn't 
hurt  you  for  the  world,'  and  he  took  out  his  hanker- 
chief  and  wiped  the  nigger's  lips.  '  Old  man,'  he  went 
on,  'that  hat  you've  got  on  aint  fit  to  wear.  Come  in 
here,'  and  he  led  him  into  a  store  that  happened  not  to 
be  closed  up  on  account  of  the  desperado.  'Here,'  he 
called,  and  the  storekeeper  began  to  dance  around, 
'give  this  old  man  the  best  hat  you've  got  in  the 
house.  W'y,  your  shoes  are  all  worn  out,  too,  old  man. 
We'll  jest  get  a  new  pair,  that's  what  we'll  do.  And 
you  need  a  coat  too.  Oh,  we  can't  afford  to  go  around 


144  ODD  FOLKS. 

lookin'  shabby.  We  don't  care  what  it  costs.  Here, 
young  fellow,  hustle  around.  Hand  us  a  coat.'  He 
stood  lookin'  on  with  tender  eyes.  When  the  nigger 
was  rigged  out,  Ab  asked  : 

"  4  Whar  was  you  headed  for,  old  gentleman — and 
God  knows  you  are  a  gentleman,  I  don't  care  how  black 
you  are.' 

"  4I  was  goin'  down  to  the  wagin  yard,  sah.' 

"  4  Wall,  it's  too  muddy  to  walk  down  thar  with  them 
new  shoes  on,  so  I'll  jest  send  you  down  thar  in  a  hack. 
Here,  Mister,  make  out  your  bill ' ;  and  when  he  had 
paid  what  was  due  the  store  he  put  the  old  man  in  a 
hack  and  sent  him  away." 

The  three  friends  looked  at  one  another  but  said 
nothing.  The  train  stopped  at  a  station,  and  a  tired- 
looking  woman,  carrying  a  little  girl  in  her  arms,  got 
on.  She  took  a  seat  just  opposite  the  three  friends  and 
Old  Billy.  The  little  girl  began  to  cry.  Brooks 
bought  her  an  orange,  but  she  would  not  take  it. 
Adams  offered  her  an  apple,  but  she  screamed  at  him. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  her,"  said  the 
woman,  sighing.  "  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter 
with  her." 

Old  Billy  looked  at  the  woman  and  then  at  the  child. 
"  Your  child,  madam  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Your  only  child,  I  reckon." 


OLD  BILLY,  145 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  The  only  one  you've  ever  had,  I  take  it." 

"  Well,  yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  regarding  him  curi 
ously. 

"  And  you  were  an  only  child,  too,  I  reckon." 

u  I  was,  sir." 

"And  you  didn't  play  with  children  much." 

"No,  sir." 

"  I  thought  not." 

The  old  man  got  up,  took  a  little  shawl  that  had 
been  thrown  on  a  seat,  twisted  it,  tied  a  knot  at  one 
end,  smoothed  the  thing  into  the  semblance  of  a  rag 
doll,  handed  it  to  the  little  girl  and  said :  "  Love 
the  doll."  The  little  creature  seized  the  rag  and 
hugged  it.  She  ceased  crying  in  a  moment,  and  in  a 
sweet  disregard  of  what  was  going  on  about  her, 
hummed  the  improvised  tune  of  tenderness. 

"  Madam,"  said  the  old  man,  "your  little  girl  simply 
wanted  somethin'  to  love  and  protect." 

"  Gentlemen,"  Brooks  remarked,  arising,  "  the  man 
who  can  thus  touch  the  earliest  bud  of  woman's  noble 
nature —the  very  germ  of  the  truest  of  all  affection, 
motherly  love,  is  my  master.  He  is  not  Old  Billy,  but, 

gentlemen,  he  is  the  Hon.  William." 
10 


SWINGING  IN  THE  DUSK. 


THE  Hatcbie  river  was  raging.  Far  away  over  the 
hills  black  clouds  were  hanging,  and  dogwood  trees, 
still  green  of  leaf  and  white  of  blossom,  came  down  the 
tumbling  stream.  The  air  was  warm  and  heavy,  and 
the  woodpecker  that  flew  over  the  bottom  field  ap 
peared  likely  to  fall  ere  he  could  reach  the  dead  tree 
that  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing.  Reports  from 
up  the  river  gave  exciting  accounts  of  another  swell 
coming  down  from  the  mountains,  and  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  Hickory  Flat  there  was  nothing  talked  of  ex 
cept  the  disasters  of  the  flood.  A  yoke  of  oxen  belong 
ing  to  old  Matt  Sprague  had  been  dumped  out  of  a  lot 
by  the  sudden  caving  of  a  bank  and  whirled  away,  and 
it  was  excitingly  reported  that  a  fine  brond  mare,  the 
property  of  'Squire  Nickelson,  had  been  washed  against 
a  tree  and  killed.  The  Hatchie  was  a  treacherous 
stream,  and  the  people  had  been  brought  up  in  the  be 
lief  that  it  could  be  guilty  of  almost  any  trick  known 
to  the  southern  tributaries  of  the  Mississippi,  but  no 

one    had   been    sufficiently    schooled   to    suspect   this 
(146) 


SWINGING  IN  THE  DUSK.  147 

stream  capable  of  so  broad-spread  a  disaster  as  was  now 
threatened. 

Lit  Halpin,  a  hard-working  fellow  who  had  married 
one  of  the  Lanier  girls,  had  just  completed  a  one-story 
board  house  in  the  second  bottom  of  the  Hatchie.  At 
the  time  of  his  marriage  he  was  a  hired  man  on  a  farm ; 
and  a  hired  man  in  that  part  of  the  country  is  scarcely 
a  Ward  McAllister  of  society.  But  the  knowledge 
that  there  existed  a  prejudice  against  him  did  not  seem 
to  lie  with  much  weight  upon  the  mind  of  Lit  Halpin. 
He  said  that  he  wasn't  much  of  a  society  man  anyway  ; 
declared  that  he  didn't  care  to  ride  about  on  Sundays 
wearing  high-heeled  boots  that  were  too  small  for  him 
—and  this  the  social  life  of  Hickory  Flat  imperiously 
demanded — he  sought  simply  an  opportunity  to  earn  a 
living.  And  he  did  earn  a  living.  Not  only  this,  he 
won  the  love  of  the  handsomest  girl  in  the  community 
in  an  accidental  way  and  married  her.  He  bought  a 
piece  of  land  in  the  rich  second  bottom  and  had  just 
put  away  his  tools,  after  completing  his  modest  house, 
when  the  Hatchie  began  its  threatening  rise. 

"  Allie,"  he  said,  speaking  to  his  wife,  "  I  believe 
the  old  Hatch  is  going  to  try  to  gouge  us  out.  Up  a 
little  way  from  here  it  is  digging  pretty  sharply  into 
the  bank." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not,  Lit."  She  was  standing  on  the 
veranda. 


148  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  So  do  I,  but  that  won't  keep  the  water  back.  If 
hope  worked  half  the  time  there  wouldn't  be  one-third 
us  much  trouble  in  the  world." 

"  That's  true,"  she  admitted ;  and  after  a  moment's 
silence,  she  asked : 

"  Do  you  think  we  can  do  anything?'* 

"  Not  much."  He  turned  and  looked  about  him. 
"  Allie,"  said  he,  "  I'll  tell  you  what  we  might  do. 
We  might  tie  the  house  with  a  cable  rope,  so  that  if 
the  water  does  come  we'll  be  anchored." 

"  Oh,  that  would  be  charming,"  she  cried.  "  But 
will  it  float?  "  she  asked,  becoming  serious. 

"  Of  course  it  will.  I'll  go  and  get  that  well  rope 
and  fix  the  thing  right  now." 

The  rope  was  found  to  be  long  enough.  He  at 
tached  one  end  to  the  strong  underpinning  of  the  house, 
and  the  other  end  he  made  fast  to  a  large  cotton  wood 
tree,  leaving  a  play  of  about  fifty  feet.  He  smiled  at 
his  own  ingenuity,  and  said  that  if  the  freakish  river 
should  take  a  turn  in  his  direction,  it  would  find  him 
prepared.  Just  then  a  man  rode  up. 

"Lit,"  he  called,  "the  water  is  about  to  sweep  old 
man  Potts  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  We  must  go 
down  and  help  him  save  his  cattle.  Here,  hop  up  be 
hind  me." 

This  admitted  of  no  protest,  nor  of  a  moment's  ques- 


SWINGING  IN  THE  DUSK.  149 

tioning.  Lit  jumped  upon  a  stump  and  sprang  upon 
the  horse. 

"Allie,"  he  called,  looking  back,  "stay  in  the  house 
and  you'll  be  all  right.  There's  no  danger,  anyway, 
but  stay  in  the  house." 

The  horse  galloped  away.  The  woman  went  about 
her  work.  The  clouds  over  the  hills  grew  darker 
but  the  sun  shone  on  the  house,  and  in  the  brightness 
there  was  so  blithe  a  promise  that  the  danger  would 
pass  that  the  wife  hummed  a  tune  as  she  worked. 
Suddenly  there  came  a  roar  and  a  jar.  She  ran  out 
upon  the  veranda.  The  river  had  cut  through  the 
field.  The  house  was  afloat.  The  current  was  swift, 
and  the  rope  was  taut.  There  was  no  way  to  reach 
land,  and  the  woman,  feeling  that  she  was  safe,  sat 
down  to  await  the  return  of  her  husband.  Some  one 
called  her,  and  looking  up  she  saw  a  man  standing  near 
the  tree  at  the  other  end  of  the  rope. 

"  Where's  Lit  ?  "  the  man  asked. 

"  Gone  to  help  save  cattle.  And  why  don't  you  go 
to  help,  too.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself, 
Tobe." 

The  man  looked  about  him.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "but 
there  are  other  things  in  this  life  that  a  person  might 
be  ashamed  of.  I  know  people  that  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  something  worse  than  not  saving  cattle- 


150  ODD  FOLKS. 

I  know  a  woman  who  promised  to  marry  a  man  and 
didn't." 

"  Go  on  away,  Tobe ;  I  don't  want  to  have  any  words 
with  you.* 

"  Don't  you?     But  I  reckon  you  will." 

".  If  Lit  were  here  you  wouldn't  talk  to  me  that  way. 
I'm  going  to  tell  him  when  he  comes  home." 

The  water  was  so  loud  in  its  roar  that  she  had  to  lift 
her  voice. 

"  Do  }TOU  reckon  ?  "  he  shouted.  "  When  do  you  ex 
pect  to  see  him  again  ?" 

"  He'll  be  home  pretty  soon — too  soon  for  your  good." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  If  I  had  something  to  shoot  with  you  shouldn't 
stand  there  and  torment  me." 

"  Do  you  reckon  ?  You  ought  to  have  kept  your 
gun  at  home  instead  of  letting  folks  borrow  it.  Say, 
after  you  fooled  me  I  told  you  that  you'd  be  sorry, 
didn't  I?" 

«  I  didn't  fool  you,  Tobe." 

"  Yes,  you  did ;  you  said  you'd  marry  me." 

"  Well,  but  I  told  you  shortly  afterward  that  I 
couldn't.  That  wasn't  fooling  you/' 

"Wasn't  it?  I  think  it  was,  and  I  told  you  that 
you'd  be  sorry.  You  couldn't  keep  your  word,  but  I'm 
going  to  show  you  that  I  can  keep  mine.  The  water's 
swift  out  there,  ain't  it?" 


SWINGING  IN  THE  DUSK.  151 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  !  "  she  cried  in  alarm. 

"I'm  going  to  keep  my  word." 

"  Tobe,  please  go  on  away." 

"  I  will — Fll  go  one  way  and  you'll  go  another.  The 
water's  pretty  swift  out  there,  ain't  it?" 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  she  shrieked.  "  For  God's 
sake  don't  cut  that  rope,  Tobe  ! 

The  house  went  whirling  down  the  stream. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN  a  remote  community,  near  the  line  of  the  Indian 
territory,  a  rude  court  sat  in  session.  A  prisoner,  tied 
with  a  rope,  sat  on  a  bench.  He  had  come  into  the 
neighborhood  six  months  before,  and  had  killed  a  man. 
Now  he  was  on  trial  for  his  life.  The  verdict  was 
brought  in,  and  just  then  a  man  strode  into  the  room. 

"Judge,"  he  said,  "wait  a  moment.  I'm  no  lawyer 
and  have  no  right  to  talk  in  court,  but  I  beg  you  to 
listen  to  me." 

"  This  is  a  court  of  justice  rather  than  of  law,"  the 
judge  answered.  "  Speak." 

The  prisoner  drew  back  and  tried  to  hide  his  face. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  man  who  had  just  entered, 
"  for  months  I  have  been  looking  for  the  wretch  you've 
got  tied  there.  Listen."  He  told  an  affecting  story  of 


152  ODD  FOLKS. 

a  home  in  Tennessee.     He  told  of  a  flood,  and  of  his 
house,   tied   to  a  tree.     He  drew  a  rude  but  strong 
picture   of  his  wife   sitting  on   the   veranda,  with  the 
waters  of  a  mad  river  roaring  about  her.     "  This  wretch 
came  up  and  stood  on  the  bank,  gentlemen,''  he  con 
tinued.     "He  declared  that  my  wife  had  promised  to 
marry  him.     He  knew  that  I  was  nowhere  about  the 
place— he  knew  that  I  had  gone  to  help  his  own  father 
save  his  cattle  from  drowning.     Gentlemen,  this  scoun 
drel   cut  the  rope   that   held  the  house,  and -I  found 
her,"  he  added  after  a  pause  —"I  found  her  when  the 
river  fell.     And  now  I  tell  you  that  this  hound  does 
not  belong  to  your  law,  but  to  mine.     See  here,  I  have 
brought  this   all  the  way  from  Tennessee."     He  un 
wound  a  rope  from  about  his  body.     "  I  say  he  is  mine. 
Judge,  did  you  hear  what  I  said  ?  " 

"Mr.  Sheriff,"  said  the  judge,  "we  have  made  a  mis 
take.  The  prisoner  does  not  belong  to  us." 

Near  the  place  where  the  court  met,  a  tree  leaned 
over  the  road,  and  when  evening  was  come  a  man  sat 
with  his  back  against  a  stump,  watching  a  human  fig 
ure,  swinging  in  the  dust. 


A  MEMORABLE  MEAL. 


IT  was  at  luncheon,  and  one  of  Chicago's  largest 
merchants  was  in  a  talkative  mood.  "  One  particular 
meal  lives  in  my  memory,"  said  he.  "  It  was  years  ago, 
and  I  had  just  arrived  in  Chicago.  I  had  come  from 
the  East,  and  had  '  worked '  my  way  on  canal  boats 
and  afterwards  hoofed  it  over  the  prairie.  I  had  been 
led  to  believe  that  all  one  had  to  do  was  to  come  here 
and  pick  up  money.  I  looked  about  with  an  eager  eye, 
but  didn't  find  any.  Indeed,  I  must  have  struck  the 
town  when  its  pulse  was  low  for  I  couldn't  get  any 
work.  I  had  gone  two  days  with  nothing  to  eat. 
Something  had  to  be  done.  I  didn't  want  to  steal.  In 
fact,  nothing  was  left  lying  in  my  way.  But  I  had  to 
get  something  to  eat,  one  way  or  another.  I  shuddered 
at  the  thought  of  begging,  but  I  stepped  into  a  store 
and  hinted  that  I  should  like  to  eat  something.  A  man 
looked  up  from  his  desk,  flashed  a  measurement  over 
me,  and  said  :  *  Get  out,  you  hulk.'  For  a  short  time 
anger  relieved  my  hunger,  but  resentment,  while  it 
may  temporarily  turn  the  edge  of  appetite,  can  not 
shut  the  knife.  I  was  walking  along  Lake  street  when 
the  richest  of  perfume,  the  fragrance  of  a  New  England 

(153) 


154  ODD  FOLKS. 

boiled  dinner,  came  through  a  doorway.  I  stepped  into 
the  place.  At  that  time  it  was  the  largest  restaurant 
in  Chicago.  A  feeling  of  desperate  boldness  came  over 
me,  and  with  a  firm  step  I  walked  back  and  took  a  seat 
at  a  table.  My  first  intention  was  to  give  a  modest 
order,  but  could  modesty  serve  a  thief,  and  surely  I  was 
a  thief,  for  I  had  come  in  to  steal  my  dinner.  No,  I 
would  suffer  no  self-restraint  If  I  had  to  steal,  I 
would  steal  the  best.  The  waiter  came  and  I  ordered 
nearly  everything  on  the  bill  of  fare.  It  was  an  eter 
nity  before  the  order  was  filled,  and  when  it  came  I  was 
so  nervously  eager  that  I  could  scarcely  eat ;  but  after 
a  while  I  settled  down  to  a  sort  of  physical  happiness. 
No  one  noticed  that  I  was  eating  like  a  wolf.  Sud 
denly  a  sore  dread  fell  upon  me.  How  was  I  going  to 
get  out  ?  I  looked  toward  the  door,  and  for  the  first 
time  I  noticed  that  the  cashier  was  a  most  threatening 
and  burly-looking  fellow.  Then  I  began  to  speculate 
as  to  the  particular  method  he  would  choose  to  rid  me 
of  my  life.  At  last  I  settled  upon  the  belief  that  he 
would  kick  me  to  death.  This  was  suggested,  I  re 
member,  by  the  fact  that  just  as  I  sat  looking  at  him  he 
came  out  from  behind  the  counter  and  kicked  at  a  dog. 
Yes,  my  time  had  come.  I  had  saved  myself  from 
starving  merely  to  die  a  more  violent  death.  I  philoso 
phized  that  after  all  life  was  not  worth  living.  But  I 
was  young,  and  it  was  hard  to  die  without  having  aq- 


A   MEMORABLE  MEAL.  155 

complished  anything.  I  took  up  the  check  which  the 
waiter  had  placed  on  the  table.  Gracious  alive,  I  owed 
§1.40!  I  thought  of  my  home,  away  back  in  the  hills 
of  New  England.  I  thought  of  my  husky  father,  and 
I  wished  that  I  had  his  strength.  There  was  no  use  of 
putting  it  off.  Better  die  and  get  it  off  my  mind.  I 
took  the  check,  walked  up  to  the  cashier's  desk,  and 
with  hopelessness  settled  into  a  resignation  that  might 
have  been  taken  for  the  serenest  of  confidence,  I  placed 
the  piece  of  paper  in  front  of  that  frowning  giant.  He 
turned  it  over,  looked  at  it  and  then  looked  at  me. 

"  -  Was  everything  all  right  ?  '  he  asked. 

"  *  Yes,  sir.' 

"  4  Well ! ' 

"I  looked  at  him  a  moment  and  then  said  :  *  I  won't 
tell  a  pitiful  tale.  I  was  hungry;  I  had  no  money;  I 
came  in,  ordered  the  best  you've  got,  and  now  I  am  at 
your  service.' 

"  He  opened  the  showcase.  Ah  !  instead  of  kick 
ing  me  to  death,  he  was  going  to  shoot  me.  He  reached 
in  and  grabbed  up  something,  and,  withdrawing  his 
hand,  said,  '  Have  a  cigar  ? ' 

"  That  was  a  long  time  ago,"  the  merchant  continued, 
after  a  pause,  "  but  I  think  of  it  nearly  every  time  I 
go  into  a  restaurant.  What  did  you  say  ?  Oh,  what 
became  of  the  burly  fellow  ?  He  is  the  manager  of 
our  wholesale  department/' 


A  DEAD  MARCH. 


AT  night  they  brought  a  man  to  the  hotel.  He  had 
sprung  up  from  an  opium  dream — wild  and  a  maniac. 
He  had  gone  to  a  Chinese  opium  den  and  for  hours  he 
lay  in  a  stupor,  but  suddenly  he  awoke  with  a  cry  and 
he  sprang  up  and  shook  in  a  frenzy.  Some  one  said 
that  he  was  staying  at  a  hotel  in  the  "downtown" 
district,  and  thither  they  took  him.  His  eyes  looked 
like  glass  marbles  with  curiously-wrought  figures  in 
them,  but  the  design  of  the  figures  could  not  be 
traced.  They  took  him  to  a  room  and  compelled  him 
to  lie  down.  A  doctor  came  and  injected  morphine 
into  his  arm.  Some  one  remarked  :  "  I  warrant  you 
he's  a  handsome  fellow  when  he's  at  himself." 

Three  children  were  playing  in  the  corridor,  and  a 
boy,  early  in  beginning  the  lordly  deception  which  the 
male  feels  that  it  is  legitimate  to  practice  on  the  oppo 
site  sex,  said  to  a  girl:  "  He  is  a  robber  and  they 
brought  him  out  of  a  cave  where  there's  ever  so  much 
gold,  and  they're  going  to  kill  him." 

At  intervals  during  the  night  the  man  slept,  but  at 
times  he  would  spring  up  and  rave  like  a  demon, 

(156) 


A   DEAD  MARCH.  157 

"They  are  gone,  they  are  murdered,"  he  kept  on  re 
peating.  "  Why  didn't  they  take  me.  They  are  mur 
dered." 

To  a  certain  class  of  human  beings  the  following 
day  will  ever  be  memorable.  A  procession  marched 
along  the  street.  The  music  was  a  dead  march,  but 
from  further  down  the  line  came  the  strains  of  Annie 
Laurie.  There  were  coffins  with  red  flags  thrown 
over  them.  The  air  was  cold  and  raw,  and  everywhere 
there  seemed  to  be  a  suppressed  excitement — a  hushed 
yell.  On  the  sidewalks  rough  men  stood,  breathing 
hard.  They  were  panting  for  revenge.  A  man 
stepped  from  the  throng.  He  unfurled  an  American 
flag,  took  the  lead  of  the  procession  and  defiantly 
marched  onward.  There  was  a  loud  murmur — a  growl, 
but  no  one  dared  molest  him. 

A  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  assembled  in 
the  drawing-room  of  the  hotel  to  which  the  opium 
maniac  had  been  taken.  The  procession  was  passing. 
Some  one  accidentally  struck  the  keys  of  a  piano. 
The  next  moment  the  maniac  rushed  into  the  room. 
He  had  been  asleep,  and  his  attendant  had  left  him. 
The  piano  had  called  him  back  to  wakefulness  but  not 
to  reason.  His  eyes  glared.  The  designs  in  them 
could  now  have  been  traced,  a  man  said — coffins  with 
red  rags  over  them. 

"They   have   tried   to   keep   me   from   it,  but  they 


158  ODD  FOLKS. 

can't,"  he  cried.  "  I  was  born  to  play  their  '  funeral 
march. ' " 

He  threw  himself  at  the  piano.  A  storm  arose,  and 
out  of  the  storm  came  a  cry  of  distress.  The  storm 
deepened  and  there  was  a  rumble  as  if  a  great  multi 
tude  were  threatening  vengeance.  The  .company 
turned  from  the  windows  and  gazed  in  awe  at  the  pian 
ist.  There  was  present  a  man  who  was  celebrated  in 
Europe  as  a  musical  genius  and  he  was  enraptured. 

"  This  is  not  a  man,"  he  cried.  "  It  is  a  tormented 
soul." 

The  procession  passed.  The  strains  of  "Annie 
Laurie  "  were  heard  far  down  the  street.  The  storm 
also  had  passed,  and  the  piano  seemed  a  green  bank 
where  waters  rippled.  Birds  were  singing.  The 
ripple  grew  fainter — the  birds  were  hushed.  Silence. 
The  man  leaned  forward.  His,  nurse  ran  into  the  room. 
The  European  genius  said,  "  Don't  disturb  him.  He 
will  play  again." 

They  waited,  but  he  did  not  move.  Yes,  he  did 
move — He  leaned  back  slowly  and  fell  on  the  floor. 
The  designs  were  no  longer  in  his  eyes — they  may  have 
been  there,  but  the  lights  were  turned  out  behind 
them. 

His  name  was  never  discovered.  He  had  registered 
when  he  came  to  the  hotel,  but  when  the  book  was  ex 
amined  there  was  found  an  unintelligible  scratch. 


AN  IMPERIOUS  COURT. 


NEGLEY  was  riding  along  a  road  in  a  remote  and 
picturesque  part  of  southern  Missouri.  The  day  was 
delightful — the  weather  had  crossed  the  imaginary  line 
that  fancy  has  drawn  between  Spring  and  Summer. 
Negley  did  not  belong  to  any  temperance  order,  or  if 
he  did  his  adherence  to  its  precepts  was  not  very 
strict,  for  as  he  rode  along  there  in  the  sunshine  he  took 
out  a  whisky  bottle,  held  it  up  and  looked  through  it. 
That  hasty  survey  assured  him  that  there  was  but  one 
drink  left. 

"  Well,  I  might  as  well  take  it  off  my  mind  and  put 
it  where  it  will  do  more  good  or  harm,"  he  mused. 
"  What's  this,"  he  added,  looking  at  a  line  of  print 
across  the  label  on  the  flask.  " 4  Please  break  this  bot 
tle.'  Now  why  should  I  put  myself  to  that  trouble  ? 
My  obligation  ended  when  I  paid  for  the  stuff,  and 
the  manufacturer  has  no  more  right  to  make  any 
further  demand.  But  after  all  it's  a  very  slight  re 
quest.  It  implies  but  little  exertion  on  my  part."  He 
drank  the  whisky  and  again  looked  at  the  request. 
This  time  he  noticed  it  was  printed  in  red.  "All 

(159) 


160  ODD  FOLKS. 

right,  gentlemen,  I  will  go  you,"  said  he,  and  rising  in 
his  stirrups  he  threw  the  bottle  at  a  rail  fence.  The 
bottle  whirled  through  an  opening,  made  by  a  crooked 
rail,  and  then  there  came  a  loud  cry  like  the  howl  of  a 
wild  beast.  And  a  man  jumped  up,  looked  about 
him,  sprang  over  the  fence,  and,  bounding  to  the  mid 
dle  of  the  road,  in  front  of  Negley,  shook  his  fist  and 
exclaimed : 

"So  I've  got  you.  Oh,  attempt  to  get  away  and 
I'll  shoot  the  top  of  your  head  off.  Can't  lie  down  to 
take  a  little  nap  but  somebody  must  come  along  and 
try  to  kill  me.  But  I've  got  you." 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Negley,  "I  humbly  beg  your 
pardon.  I  didn't  see  you  until  after  I  had  thrown  that 
bottle" 

"  You  didn't,  hay  ?  Haven't  you  got  anything  to  do 
but  go  about  the  country  throwing  bottles?  What 
did  you  throw  at  if  you  didn't  throw  at  me?  Oh,  I've 
got  you ! " 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  threw  at  the  fence." 

"What  did  you  want  to  throw  at  the  fence  for? 
And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  couldn't  hit 
that  fence  ?  And  say,  Why  did  you  want  to  hit  the 
fence  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  break  the  bottle." 

"  What  did  you  want  to  break  the  bottle  for  ?  Why 
couldn't  you  have  thrown  it  over  there  against  that 


AN  IMPERIOUS  COURT.  161 

rock?  Look  here,  your  aim  was  to  assassinate  one  of 
the  most  prominent  citizens  of  this  neighborhood,  and 
if  any  law  can  be  squeezed  out  of  the  statutes  of  this 
State  you  shall  suffer  for  it.  Turn  off  yonder  at  the 
right,  and  ride  slowly  toward  that  house  across  the 
creek." 

"Look  here,"  Negley  protested,  "you  can't  arrest  me 
without  a  warrant." 

"Can't  I?  We'll  see.  Things  may  be  different 
where  you  came  from,  but  in  this  part  of  the  country 
the  law  doesn't  sit  cross-legged  and  see  a  criminal  get 
away  just  because  no  warrant  has  been  issued  for  him. 
Ride  on,  there." 

Negley  is  a  peaceable  sort  of  a  fellow,  and  he  is  also 
a  man  of  exquisite  judgment ;  so  he  rode  along.  When 
he  arrived  at  the  gate  in  front  of  the  house  that  had 
been  pointed  out,  he  was  told  to  dismount.  He  did 
so,  and  just  then  a  girl,  swift  of  motion  and  with  a 
wild  tangle  of  dark  hair,  came  out. 

"Hal,"  said  Negley 's  captor,  "here's  a  fellow  that 
tried  to  kill  me  just  now,  and  I'm  going  to  have  him 
tried  for  his  life,  even  if  we  do  have  to  stretch  a  point 
in  law.  Here,  take  this  pistol  and  hold  him  here  until 
I  come  back." 

The  girl  took  the  pistol  and  the  man  disappeared. 
44  What  is  he  going  to  do  ?  "  Negley  asked. 

"He's  gone  after  the  constable  and  the  clerk.     Got 
11 


162  ODD  FOLKS. 

to  have  'em  or  he  can't  run  the  court.  He's  the 
Judge." 

"  Look  here,  miss,  I  didn't  hit  your  father  intention 
ally.  I  simply  threw  a  bottle  away  to  break  it  and 
happened  to  hit  him." 

"  Was  there  anything  in  the  bottle  ?  "  she  asked. 

-No." 

"  Then  no  wonder  he  got  mad." 

Negley's  face  brightened.  "  And  won't  you  please 
let  me  ride  on  away  ?  " 

"  No,  I'll  have  to  keep  you  till  pap  comes." 

"  But  you  could  shoot  at  me  and  not  hit  me." 

"  Oh,  hitting  you  wouldn't  make  so  much  difference, 
but  I  might  hit  the  horse,  and  that  would  be  bad." 

She  held  him  there  until  the  old  man  returned, 
and  then  a  formal  indictment  was  issued.  The  Judge 
decided  that  the  case  was  not  bailable,  and  it  was 
therefore  necessary  to  keep  the  prisoner  in  close  con 
finement  until  the  next  day,  when  it  was  intended  that 
the  trial  should  begin.  So  the  prisoner  was  locked  in 
the  smokehouse  and  a  guard  was  appointed.  Negley 
sat  down  on  a  box  of  salt  pork  and  cursed  the  back 
woods  institutions  of  his  country.  He  knew  that  he 
could  have  the  old  man  arrested  and  severely  dealt 
with,  but  that  was  small  consolation.  What  he  wanted 
was  to  get  out  of  that  greasy  prison. 


AN  IMPERIOUS  COVET.  163 

"  Who's  on  guard  out  there  ?  "  he  asked,  talking 
through  a  crack. 

"lam." 

"  Oh,  is  that  you,  miss  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Jim,  the  constable,  has  gone  to  get  some 
thing  to  eat  and  I  have  to  stay  until  he  gets  back." 

44  What  time  of  night  is  it  ?  " 

44  'Bout  ten,  I  think." 

44  Look  here,  if  you  will  let  me  out  I  will  send  you  a 
silk  dress." 

44  I'd  like  to  have  one  powerful  but  I  have  to  do  my 
duty.  Here  comes  Jim." 

The  next  day  Negley  was  arraigned  before  what  pur 
ported  to  be  a  solemn  court.  The  old  man  presided 
with  severe  dignity.  He  not  only  pointed  out  the 
crime  of  striking  a  man  with  a  bottle,  but  declared  that 
added  to  this  crime  was  the  awful  offense  of  contempt 
of  court,  as  he  himself  was  the  man  who  had  received 
the  blow.  The  prisoner  urged  that  out  of  the  tender 
obedience  of  his  nature  he  had  simply  obeyed  a  request 
pasted  on  a  bottle.  But  the  bottle  was  produced. 
The  label  was  gone — some  evil-minded  person  had  re 
moved  it.  This  was  a  serious  complication.  "Pris 
oner,"  said  the  Judge,  44 1  don't  see  but  one  way  out  of 
it.  Marry  the  girl." 

44  What ! "  the  prisoner  exclaimed. 


164  ODD  FOLKS. 

*'  Yes,  that's  the  law.  You  become  my  son-in-law  or 
take  the  consequences." 

This  appeared  to  satisfy  the  entire  court.  The 
prisoner,  who  had  been  watching  for  an  opportunity, 
darted  through  the  doorway,  tumbled  over  a  fence  and 
was  soon  in  a  woods.  He  had  left  a  fine  horse,  but  he 
had  escaped  a  wife.  Several  weeks  later,  while  sitting 
in  a  St.  Louis  hotel,  Negley  overheard  the  following 
fragment  of  a  conversation  :  "  Yes,  I  was  down  in 
that  country  once  and  was  arrested  on  some  fool  charge 
— don't  exactly  remember  now  what  it  was — and  the 
court  decided  that  I  should  marry  a  girl.  The  girl  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  affair,  but  that  made  no  differ 
ence.  Well,  I  seized  what  I  thought  to  be  an  accidental 
opportunity  and  ran  away,  leaving  a  $250  horse.  I 
afterward  heard  that  this  was  the  aim  of  the  court.  I 
hear  that  other  men  have  been  trapped  pretty  much  in 
the  same  way." 


HIS  SPECIAL. 


THERE  lived  in  Chicago,  not  long  ago,  an  old  fellow 
whom  the  newspaper  men  knew  as  old  Marcus.  He 
was  known  in  all  the  newspaper  offices ;  he  haunted 
them  at  most  inopportune  times  when  the  city  editor 
was  on  the  stretcher  of  a  threatened  "  scoop  "  and  when 
the  night  editor  was  on  the  frenzied  tiptoe  of  closing 
the  "  forms."  Old  Marcus  always  had  an  important 
"special"  to  sell,  "just  for  enough  to  get  along  on." 
Want  had  made  him  weazen  ;  poverty  had  slapped  him 
into  servility  of  manner,  but  he  aspired  to  write  on 
monetary  subjects.  The  antennae  of  his  mind  were 
constantly  feeling  for  some  financial  crisis.  He  knew 
exactly  how  many  dollars  there  were  in  the  govern 
ment  vaults  ;  he  could  tell  you  how  many  dollars  were 
appropriated  by  the  late  session  of  congress,  and  could 
recite,  with  astonishing  glibness,  page  after  page  from 
the  Banker's  Monthly.  An  ordinary  event  did  not  in 
terest  him.  He  would  riot  read  even  the  headlines  of 
a  sensational  murder,  but  would  hungrily  gulp  down 
the  details  of  a  bank  failure.  On  the  night  after  the 

Bladridge  murder  he  went  into  the  office  of  a  morning 

(165) 


166  ODD  FOLKS. 

paper  and  shrinking  his  way  to  the  city  editor's  desk, 
said  : 

"  Mr.  Lowery,  pardon  my  interruption,  but  I  have  a 
very  strong  article  here  that  I  wish  you'd  look  at.  The 
shipment  of  gold  from  this  country " 

The  city  editor  wheeled  about  and  gave  him  a  look 
that  jolted  him.  "  Great  Csesar,  Marcus,  this  is  no 
time  to  talk  about  shipments  of  gold.  We'd  have  no 
room  to-night  for  an  account  of  the  discovery  of  Capt. 
Kidd's  boodle;  we've  got  a  great  murder  on  hand — a 
magnificent  murder.  Why  don't  you  go  to  the  news 
editor  with  your  stuff.  It's  not  in  my  line  anyway." 

"  He  won't  talk  to  me — doesn't  seem  to  know  what 
he  wants.  Now,  on  the  sixteenth  there  was  shipped 
from  New  York,  83,562,840,  and " 

"  That'll  do.  Gracious  alive,  how  your  head  must 
ache,  trying  to  keep  up  with  all  that  stuff." 

"  But  it  is  of  extreme  importance  to  the  country." 

"  Of  course.  Why  don't  you  take  it  to  a  financial 
paper?" 

"  Because  a  man  has  to  be  a  banker  or  the  average 
financial  paper  won't  pay  any  attention  to  him." 

"Well,  so  long,  Marcus.  I  haven't  time  to  talk  to 
you  to-night.  Go  and  find  out  who  killed  Bladridge 
and  reap  the  reward  of  a  scoop." 

"  I  am  no  detective,  Mr.  Lowery." 

"  That's  all  right.     So  long." 


HIS  SPECIAL.  167 

"  There'll  be  a  time,  Mr.  Lowery,  when  you'll  be 
glad  to  get  the  first  whack  at  something  I  write." 

"I  hope  so." 

"  I'll  furnish  you  an  item  one  of  these  days  that'll 
wake  you  up." 

"All  right,  but  put  it  off  as  long  as  you  can." 

The  old  man  fumbled  his  way  down  the  stairs  and 
went  to  another  newspaper  office.  The  city  editor  was 
in  a  stew  and  the  night  editor  was  boiling.  They 
snapped  at  him  when  he  offered  his  special.  He  went 
away  and  sought  his  room  up  a  dark  and  ill-smelling 
alley.  The  place  was  miserable.  Its  atmosphere  was 
heavy  with  the  steamy  stench  of  a  midnight  lunch, 
served  in  a  neighboring  hell-hole.  The  old  man 
lighted  a  lamp  and  placed  it  on  a  goods  box  which 
served  as  a  desk.  There  was  no  furniture  in  the  room, 
except  a  stool-bottom  chair  with  the  back  broken  off, 
and  a  few  cooking  utensils.  Newspaper  cuttings,  con 
taining  numerous  figures  and  dollar  marks,  were  tacked 
here  and  there  on  the  wall,  as  if  they  were  gems  in  oil, 
holding  a  rich  bit  of  landscape  or  a  handsome  face. 

Old  Marcus  sat  down  with  a  weary  and  discour 
aged  drop.  He  sat  for  a  time,  seeming  to  be  worn  out, 
and  then,  taking  up  his  pen,  began  to  write.  Sud 
denly  his  old  and  wrinkled  face  flushed,  and  his  form 
rounded  out.  His  hastening  pen  left  an  enchanting 
track  of  figures.  He  mumbled  over  them  and  mur- 


168  ODD  FOLKS. 

mured,  "  beautiful,"  as  if  he  were  a  poet,  astonished  at 
the  wasteful  outpour  of  his  own  inspiration. 

"Seventy-six  millions,  nine  hundred  and  four  thou 
sand,  six  hundred  and  fourteen,"  he  muttered.  "  Beau 
tiful,  and  yet  they  won't  take  it ;  but  they  will  take 
something  one  of  these  days.  I  will  thrill  them." 


CHAPTER  II. 

ONE  Sunday  night  Lowery  looked  up  ^o  find  old 
Marcus  standing  near. 

"  Helloa,  Marcus." 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Lowery.  Are  you  pushed  for 
time?" 

"Never  pushed  much  Sunday  night;  but  say,  don't 
tell  me  anything  about  the  financial  condition  of  the 
country.  I  never  did  have  time  enough  to  hear  about 
that." 

"  But  I  have  a  thing  here  that  would  be  the  very 
thing  for  Monday  morning.  Now,  Wall  street—" 

"Great  Csesar,  Marcus,  don't  begin  that.  Don't 
you  get  tired  ?  Say,  you  ought  to  go  off  somewhere 
and  rest ;  you  can't  stand  the  strain  much  longer. 
There  is  nothing  that  wears  harder  on  the  brain  than 
financiering,  and  you'd  better  look  out.  Don't  you 


HIS   SPECIAL.  169 

know  that  Gould  and  all  those  fellows  have  been 
warned  by  their  physicians,  not  to  keep  up  the  strain 
too  long  ?  Look  out,  Marcus." 

"Mr.  Lowery,"  said  the  old  man,  and  in  his  voice 
there  was  a  tone  of  sadness,  "  I  am  too  old  and  too 
feeble  to  be  made  fun  of  this  way.  I  know  you  don't 
mean  any  harm  by  it,  and  for  a  long  time  I  could  stand 
it,  but  I  have  been  so  oppressed  of  late  that  what  was 
once  a  mere  reminder  that  I  was  carrying  something 
has  become  a  heavy  load.  Don't  make  fun  of  me." 

Lowery  had  shoved  back  his  chair,  and  was  regard 
ing  the  old  man  with  an  expression  of  sympathy. 

"  Marcus,  you  know  that  I  wouldn't  say  anything  to 
hurt  your  feelings.  I  am  sorry  for  you  if  you  are  in 
distress,  and  will  help  you  out  if  I  can.  Where  are 
you  from,  anyway,  old  man  ?" 

For  the  first  time  he  felt  a  sort  of  interest  in  this 
strange  piece  of  driftwood  on  the  river  of  life. 

"  I  came  from  Boston  seven  years  ago.  Ah,  Lowery,'* 
he  added  with  a  brightening  face,  "  there's  the  financial 
town  for  you.  I  used  to  write  for  the  weekly  State 
ment,  published  there,  and  the  editor  often  said  that  he 
didn't  see  how  he  could  get  along  without  me.  Do 
you  remember,  about  ten  years  ago,  an  article  giving 
an  exhaustive  account  of  the  debt  of  England — how 
she  owed  more  than  all  the  coined  money  in  the  world 
could  pay  ?  " 


170  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  I  read  something  like  that,  but  I  don't  know  where 
I  saw  it,"  Loweiy  answered. 

"  Well,  no  matter  where  you  saw  it,  I  wrote  it." 

"  Did  the  editor  of  the  weekly  Statement  pay  you  for 
your  contributions?  " 

"  Oh,  gracious,  yes." 

"How  much?" 

"  Oh,  he  used  to  pay  me  a  dollar  a  column.  It 
wasn't  much,  I  know,  but  in  these  days  of  dry  rot  and 
sensationalism,  a  man  ought  to  be  glad  to  get  the  truth 
printed  at  almost  any  price.  That  reminds  me  that  I 
have  an  article  here  that  will  create  a  sensation  through 
out  the  country.  It  involves  the  sum  of  forty-eight 
millions,  five  hundred " 

"  That's  enough,"  Lowery  interposed. 

"  But  don't  you  want  the  article  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  it's  too  sensational." 

"  Nonsense,  Lowery.  It  would  add  tone  and  dignity 
to  your  paper.  I  was  noticing  this  morning  what  a  lot 
of  dry  stuff  you  print— not  one  gleam  of  light  except 
a  few  figures  telegraphed  from  Washington." 

The  city  editor  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  The 
great  financier  continued:  "Of  course,  you  needn't 
take  it.  I  didn't  expect  you  would.  You  are  hired  to 
get  up  news  for  unthinking  people,  and  a  piece  of  real 
intelligence  is  of  no  use  to  you.  I'll  bet  that  one  of 
these  days  I'll  write  an  article  that  you'll  want." 


HIS   SPECIAL.  171 

"  How  many  millions  will  it  involve  ?  " 

"Not  a  blessed  cent." 

"Ah,  you  begin  to  interest  me." 

"You'll  not  only  be  interested,  but  thrilled  when 
you  see  the  article." 

"  When  are  you  going  to  write  it?  " 

"  I  don't  know  exactly,  but  when  you  read  it  you 
will  be  astonished  at  my  power  to  produce  sensational 
matter,  and  the  boys  in  the  office  will  talk  about  it,  and 
the  whole  town  will  be  eager  to  know  more  of  the 
writer." 

"  All  right,  bring  it  up." 

"No,  I  shall  not  bring  it." 

"  You'll  send  it  in,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,  I'll  not  do  that,  either." 

"  Then  how  am  I  to  get  it?  " 

"  If  you'll  give  me  a  dollar  I'll  promise  to  direct  it 
to  you." 

"All  right,  here's  your  money." 

The  old  man  took  the  dollar  and  went  out.  They 
heard  him  fumbling  his  way  down  the  narrow  stairs, 
and  then  one  of  the  men  said  : 

"  Didn't  know  you  ever  paid  in  advance,  Mr.  Low- 
ery." 

"Poor  fellow,"  replied  the  city  editor,  "he  needed 
the  dollar.  I  don't  think,  however,  that  he'll  need 
many  more." 


172  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  I'll  bet,"  said  a  reporter,  "  that  he'll  never  furnish 
an  item  until  he's  dead." 

Some  time  passed,  and  old  Marcus  did  not  call,  but 
one  night  just  as  some  one  had  mentioned  Ids  name, 
there  came  a  telephone  message  announcing  that  he 
was  dead.  About  an  hour  later  a  reporter  came  in, 
and  handing  Lowery  a  sealed  envelope,  said :  "  This 
was  found  on  old  Marcus'  desk  addressed  to  you.  The 
police  don't  know  whether  he  died  a  natural  death  or 
committed  suicide.  Maybe  this  will  tell." 

Lowery  tore  open  the  envelope  and  read  the  follow 
ing: 

MY  SENSATIONAL   SPECIAL. 

"  I  told  you  that  I  would  write  you  a  sensational 
special.  Here  it  is.  I  know  that  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  get  out  of  my  room  again,  as  it  is  about  as  much  as 
I  can  do  to  sit  up,  and  I  must  hasten  to  the  fulfillment 
of  my  promise. 

"  A  number  of  years  ago,  while  I  lived  in  Boston,  I 
did  a  great  deal  of  writing,  as  I  once  told  you,  for  the 
Statement.  Once,  while  in  the  office,  I  met  a  very 
pleasant  man  who  had  just  handed  in  his  views  on  an 
important  financial  transaction.  We  talked  a  while 
and  I  found  him  to  be  bright  and  entertaining.  I  met 
him  a  number  of  times  and  became  interested  in  him. 
One  day  while  we  were  talking,  my  wife,  who  was  down 


HIS  SPECIAL.  173 

town  shopping,  called  for  me.  I  introduced  him,  and 
when  she  and  I  left  the  office  he  accompanied  us.  We 
walked  some  distance  together,  and  when  we  parted,  I 
gave  him  the  number  of  our  house  and  asked  him  to 
call.  He  said  that  he  should  be  pleased  to  do  so,  and 
he  did  call  several  evenings  later  and  made  himself 
most  agreeable.  My  wife  was  a  handsome  and  charm 
ing  woman,  much  younger  than  I.  She  was  much 
taken  with  the  fellow.  You  can  begin  to  surmise,  can't 
you?  You  can,  unless  you  are  as  stupid  as  I  was. 
This  man  called  frequently,  and  instead  of  keeping  up 
a  financial  talk  with  me,  talked  literature  to  iny  wife. 
Fool  is  the  practical  man  who  marries  a  woman  of  lit 
erary  bent.  The  fellow  of  gabbling  nonsense,  of 
metrical  blubbers,  of  the  dactylic  dripping  of  mental 
foam,  can  come  along  and  wind  a  pliant  will  about  his 
finger.  Babbled  literature  has  ruined  many  an  honest 
plodder's  home.  Look  at  the  farmer  boy.  What  a 
fool  he  is  to  marry  a  girl  that  loves  poetry.  Well,  one 
day  when  I  went  home  I  found  that  my  wife  had  run 
away  with  that  villain.  They  had  gone,  I  knew  not 
whither,  but  I  felt  within  my  soul  that  I  should  meet 
them  again  and  kill  them.  I  could  not  follow  them — I 
was  too  poor.  Some  time  afterwards  I  learned  that 
they  were  in  Europe.  Then,  after  a  long  time,  I  met  a 
man  who  told  me  that  my  wife  was  dead  and  that  the 
man  was  living  in  Chicago,  that  he  was  wealthy  and, 


174  ODD  FOLKS. 

consequently,  esteemed.  I  .came  to  Chicago  almost  as 
a  tramp.  The  man,  I  learned,  had  gone  with  a  party 
of  capitalists  to  South  America.  I  resolved  to  wait  for 
him,  and  I  lived  on  bitter  bread  and  sweet  hope.  I 
hud  a  long  knife,  made  of  a  file  and  finely  tempered. 
I  would  kill  him  with  that.  Why  ?  One  day  my  wife 
put  a  ring — his  ring — on  her  finger  and  couldn't  get  it 
off.  '  I  will  fix  it,'  he  said,  and  he  went  to  a  hardware 
store  and  got  a  file  and  filed  it  off.  The  operation 
must  have  been  painful,  done  with  the  clumsy  fingers 
of  love,  and  the  flesh  was  torn,  but  she  looked  up  at 
him  and  smiled.  It  was  then  that  I  knew  he  had  won 
her  heart.  Yes,  I  would  kill  him  with  that  knife,  but 
I  pawned  it  to  a  saloon  man,  so  reduced  was  I,  and  lie 
used  it  to  carve  beef  for  the  free  lunch.  One  day, 
while  I  was  standing  in  the  saloon,  in  walked  my  man. 
I  stepped  back  and  he  did  not  notice  me.  He  went  up 
to  the  lunch  counter  and  cut  off  a  piece  of  beef  with 
my  knife — ah,  his  knife,  too — and  after  taking  a  drink 
went  away.  I  tried  to  raise  money  enough  to  get  the 
knife — I  wrote  financial  items  but  could  not  sell  them. 
At  last  I  worked  for  the  saloon  man  ;  I  cleaned  out  his 
spittoons  and  got  my  knife.  Then,  every  night,  I 
looked  for  my  man.  I  was  cautious,  for  I  didn't  want 
to  be  hanged.  One  night,  after  writing  an  article 
which  I  hoped  you  would  accept,  I  started  for  your 
office.  I  saw  my  man.  I  followed  him  and  I  pressed 


'BIS  SPECIAL.  175 

the  knife  affectionately  against  me  as  I  walked  along. 
My  man  turned  into  an  alle}T,  evidently  to  go  to  a  re 
tired  saloon,  and  I  hastened  after  him.  He  did  go  into 
the  saloon  and  I  waited  in  the  alley,  not  far  off.  He 
came  out  and  approached  me.  I  stood  against  the  wall. 
Should  I  stab  him  without  saying  anything  ?  No.  I 
wanted  to  hear  him  speak.  I  spoke  to  him  and  he 
stopped. 

"  'Who  are  you?''  he  asked. 

" '  My  name  is  File  and  King,'  I  said. 

'"I  never  heard  of  such  a  fool  name.' 

" '  Then  I  will  introduce  myself,'  and  I  stabbed  him. 
He  made  a  smothered  noise — and  was  dead.  I  pulled 
my  knife  out  of  his  breast,  wiped  it  on  his  beard  and 
hastened  to  my  miserable  room.  Ah,  there  was  a  great 
sensation  the  next  morning.  An  enterprising  citizen 
had  been  murdered,  and  it  was  no  ordinary  murder, 
for  none  of  the  valuables  on  his  person  had  been  mo 
lested.  The  next  night  I  took  my  financial  article  to 
your  office  and  you  and  your  man  were  talking  about 
my  man,  and  were  wondering  if  the  police  would  catch 
the  murderer.  I  am  the  man  that  killed  Bladridge. 
You  will  find  the  knife  in  my  pillow,  and  if  you  ques 
tion  the  truth  of  my  statement,  telegraph  to  R.  J.  Bis- 
comb,  4311  State  street,  Boston,  and  ask  him  what  he 
knows  about  me.  He  does  not  know  where  I  am  and 
probably  does  not  suspect  that  I  committed  the  mur- 


176  ODD  FOLKS. 

der,  but  will  believe  what  I  have  written.  I  have  kept 
my  promise — have  written  a  special  that  will  create  a 
sensation.  And  now  I  am  to  die  here  alone.  I  could 
call  for  help,  but  need  none.  Good-bye." 


The  knife  was  found  in  the  pillow.  A  dispatch  was 
sent  to  R.  J.  Biscomb,  and  lie  replied  that  he  was  ac 
quainted  with  the  details  of  the  family  trouble  through 
which  Marcus  had  passed,  and  that  the  old  man  had 
undoubtedly  committed  the  murder. 


AT  THE  SPRING. 


IN  every  neighborhood  throughout  the  heavily  wooded 
districts  of  the  South  there  stands  an  old  log  house 
slowly  settling  down  into  decay;  and  near  it,  on  the 
same  hill,  is  a  white  board  church.  The  old  house  was 
a  place  of  religious  resort  years  ago,  and  within  its 
walls  America's  most  fervid  oratory  was  heard.  In  the 
fall  of  the  year,  when  the  fodder  had  been  pulled,  when 
the  leaves  on  the  oak  trees  had  caught  the  first  breath 
of  autumn,  the  "  revival "  began  at  Mount  Zion.  A 
strong  man  from  a  distance,  a  gospel  Samson,  came  to 
help  the  young  circuit-rider—came  to  arraign  the  devil 
and  to  paint  sin  in  most  horrible  colors.  Many  a 
shoat  was  slaughtered,  and  many  a  pone  of  corn  bread 
was  baked.  Eloquence,  zeal,  power  to  convert  did  not 
turn  the  edge  of  the  preacher's  appetite.  He  was  a 
worker  and  he  believed  in  eating;  he  gloried  in  his 
physical  as  well  as  in  his  religious  strength.  Indeed, 
his  bodily  strength  stood  him  well  in  hand,  for  he  was 
sometimes  called  upon  to  fight  Satan  in  more  forms 
than  one.  The  tough  man  from  over  the  creek — and 
it  appeared  that  the  toughest  man  always  lived  just 
across  the  creek — held  preachers  in  contempt,  and  was 
12  (177) 


178  ODD  FOLKS. 

opposed  to  the  spread  of  the  gospel ;  so  the  circuit- 
rider  was  sometimes  forced  to  get  down  in  the  county 
road,  hitch  his  horse,  and  thrash  this  fellow. 

As  long  as  the  weather  was  good,  the  young  men  re 
mained  outside  the  meeting  house,  lolling  under  the 
trees,  talking  horse,  swapping  saddles,  knives,  and 
sometimes  horses.  The  old  men,  the  women  and  the 
children  sat  inside,  listening  to  the  preacher.  The 
preachers  inveighed  against  this  neglect  on  the  part  of 
the  young  fellows,  but  it  was  a  custom  of  the  country 
and  could  not  be  remedied.  The  church  was  near  a 
spring,  and  the  spring  was  a  place  of  great  social  resort. 
It  was  here  that  the  young  men  sat  and  picked  out 
their  future  wives  from  among  the  young  women  who 
dismounted  at  the  horse-block  not  far  away.  This  is  a 
fair  sample  of  their  talk  : 

"  Zeb,  how's  your  tobacco  ?  " 

"  Putty  good.     Turning  out  better  than  I  expected." 

"  Glad  to  hear  it.  I  didn't  'low  you'd  have  any. 
Rid  along  by  your  upper  patch  about  a  month  ago,  and 
a  tobacco  worm  hopped  up  on  the  fence  and  asked  me 
for  a  chaw;  'lowed  he'd  dun  chawed  all  yourn  up." 

This  never  failed  to  raise  a  laugh,  even  among  the 
old  men  who  had  heard  it  when  they  were  boys. 

Once  a  "revival"  was  in  progress  at  Oak  Grove  in 
Sumner  county,  Tennessee.  It  had  been  a  year  of 
great  sin,  of  backsliding,  and  the  new  circuit-rider  was 


AT  THE  SPUING.  179 

ambitious  to  reclaim  the  swamp  lands  of  the  church. 
And  he  had  made  a  very  fair  start.  He  had  wallowed 
old  Sandy  Balch  in  the  county  road,  had  larrupped  one 
of  the  Stallcup  boys  with  an  apple  tree  sprout,  and  had 
eaten  with  marked  relish  a  sweet  potato  pie  baked  by 
the  widow  Morris.  Now  all  that  remained  was  'to  per 
suade  the  backsliders  to  return,  to  urge  the  new  crop 
of  sinners  to  throw  over  their  evil  ways.  His  only 
hope  to  catch  the  young  men  was  at  night;  during  the 
day,  he  must  be  content  with  the  old  men  and  the 
women.  He  was  near  the  close  of  his  sermon,  one  day 
at  noon  ;  a  horse  discussion  was  going  on  at  the  spring. 

"Now,  this  horse  of  mine,"  said  Tom  Dabbs,  "is  one 
that  you  read  about." 

"  Yes,"  Tobe  Brock  replied,  "  but  this  horse  of  mine 
is  one  that  men  preach  about." 

"I  never  hearn  nobody  preach  about  him." 

"You  hain't?  Well,  you  must  have  paid  mighty 
little  attention  to  the  sermon.  Brother  Hooker  is  goin' 
to  preach  about  him  to-night." 

"  Yes,  that's  mighty  fine  to  tell  these  folks  settin' 
about  here.  He's  goin'  to  call  up  mourners  to-night, 
an'  I  know  he  ain't  goin'  to  talk  horse." 

"  He  may  call  up  mourners,  but  he's  goin'  to  talk 
about  my  horse,  all  the  same." 

"  I'll  bet  you  five  dollars  he  don't." 

"I've  jest  got  five  and  I'll  take  you." 


180  ODD  FOLKS. 

The  money  was  put  up ;  and  as  Brock  was  walking 
away  from  the  spring  a  friend  said :  "  Tobe,  you  air 
mighty  foolish  to  throw  away  five  dollars  these  hard 
times." 

"  Ain't  flung  away  no  five  dollars." 

"  Yes,  you  have,  makin'  such  a  bet  as  that." 

"  You  wait." 

The  sermon  was  done  and  Mr.  Hooker  was  riding  to 
ward  the  place  where  he  was  to  eat  dinner.  Tobe 
Brock  overtook  him. 

"  Tobe,  why  don't  you  come  into  the  fold?  " 

"  I've  been  layin'  off  to  do  so,  Brother  Hooker,  and 
I  believe  I  will  after  a  while." 

"  Why  not  now,  Tobe  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  breakin'  some  steers  now.  Have  to  wait 
till  I  git  them  broke." 

"But  what  difference  does  that  make  ?  " 

"Makes  a  good  deal.  No  man  can  break  steers 
without  cussin'." 

"  That's  all  nonsense." 

"  Yes,  it  do  look  that  way  to  a  man  that  ain't  breakin' 
steers ;  but  let  him  try  it  once,  and  he'll  find  that 
cussin'  is  the  nachulest  thing  in  the  world.  But  I  am 
goin'  to  mend  my  licks  this  fall.  Say,  I've  got  a  little 
proposition  to  make  to  you.  Now  this  fellow,  Tom 
Dabbs — but  wait  a  minute.  I  heard  you  say  you 
wanted  to  fix  up  the  church." 


AT  THE  SPRING.  181 

«  Yes,  I  do." 

"  That's  what  I  thought,  and  I  'lowed  to  give  you 
five  dollars." 

"  I  wish  you  would.  That  would  make  up  the 
amount." 

"  I  think  I  can.  Now  this  fellow,  Tom  Dabbs,  thinks 
a  man  ain't  got  courage  to  do  nothin'.  He  said  that  a 
preacher  is  hampered  and  hilt  down  more  than  any 
body.  I  'lowed  he  wan't — 'lowed  that  you  could  say 
putty  much  what  you  pleased  ;  said  that  you  could  talk 
about  a  horse  while  standin'  right  up  in  the  pulpit — 
said  that  you  could  mention  my  horse.  He  offered  to 
bet  five  dollars  that  you  wouldn't,  and  I  tuck  him  up. 
Now  wait  a  minute.  You  mention  my  horse  to-night 
in  your  sermon,  and  I'll  give  you  five." 

"  But  I  won't  encourage  betting." 

"  You  won't?  But  you  air  encouragin'  it  when  you 
let  fellows  go  on  bettin'  without  gettin'  nipped.  You 
can  teach  this  fellow  that  it's  dangerous  to  bet,  and  you 
might  cure  him.  He  thinks  he's  got  a  sure  thing,  and 
you  ought  to  show  him  that  it's  mighty  risky  even  to 
bet  on  a  certainty,  and  besides  the  church  will  get 
fixed  up." 

"  You've  put  it  on  pretty  strong  ground,  Tobe?  " 

"Yes,  and  I  believe  that's  your  duty  both  to  the 
church  and  to — to  showin'  fellows  that  they  oughtn't  to 
bet — Well,  you  know  what  I'm  tryin'  to  git  at," 


182  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  Yes,  and  I  will  think  about  it." 

That  night  Tobe  leaned  forward  and  listened  eagerly 
to  every  word  the  preacher  uttered.  And  he  saw  no 
place  where  a  mention  of  his  horse  might  be  slipped  in. 
"  The  Son  of  Man  came  humbly  riding  on  an  ass,"  said 
the  preacher.  "  How  illustrative  of  his  meekness.  He 
could  have  mounted  the  charger  of  a  Roman  centurion. 
He  could  have  had  the  fiery  steed  from  the  Arabian  des 
ert  ;  or  coming  down  to  a  mere  homelike  illustration, 
he  could  have  ridden  an  animal  such  as  we  see  hitched 
out  yonder  under  the  trees,  a  horse  such  as  our  young 
men  ride,  such  as  that  poor,  blinded  sinner  Tobe  Brock 
rides.  Ah,  he  is  well  mounted  now  on  the  prancing 
steed  of  pride ;  he  feels  strong  ;  he  thinks  that  he  will 
never  be  compelled  to  flounder  on  foot  in  the  mud  of 
despair.  Bat  his  time  is  coming;  and  your  time  is 
coming,  Tom  Dabbs  ;  and  yours,  Lit  Perdue  ;  and  yours, 
Sam  Johnson  ;  and  yours,  Bob  Stoveall  ;  arid  yours, 
John  White — yea,  you  are  all  approaching  your  time." 

Before  the  sermon  was  over  every  man  whom  he- 
mentioned  was  at  the  bench,  praying  that  his  sins  might 
be  pardoned ;  and  when  the  congregation  was  dis 
missed,  the  stake-holder  was  told  to  return  the  money, 
that  the  bet  was  off. 

That  was  a  long  time  ago.  Tobe  is  the  pastor  of  a 
church  in  West  Tennessee,  and  Tom  is  a  presiding  el 
der  in  Arkansas, 


Not  for  Three  Hundred  Thousand. 


AT  a  watering  place  in  Virginia  there  arrived  one 
evening  a  puffy  man  of  middle  age,  and  his  daughter, 
rather  an  attractive  girl.  The  old  man's  entrance  into 
society  was  not  upon  invitation ;  it  was  a  break  in,  as 
if  a  steer  had  jumped  into  a  forbidden  pasture.  A 
number  of  gentlemen  arid  ladies  were  seated  near  the 
end  of  a  shaded  veranda,  discussing  a  book  that  had 
achieved  an  almost  instant  popularity,  when  the  puffy 
newcomer  brusquely  shoved  his  way  forward,  and  in  a 
loud  voice  blurted  out  his  opinion : 

"  I  ain't  read  the  book,"  said  he,  "  but  I'll  bet  that 
it  don't  amount  to  much.  There  is  more  humbuggery 
in  this  here  book  business  than  in  most  any  other  I 
know  of.  Books'll  do  putty  well  for  women,  but  in  my 
opinion  a  man  is  throwing  away  his  time  with  'em.  I 
had  a  twin  brother  that  took  to  books  along  back  when 
he  was  a  boy,  and  although  he  was  a  bright  feller — as 
bright  as  I  was — he  never  amounted  to  much.  I  had 
to  take  up  a  mortgage  on  his  place  for  him  not  more'n 
six  months  ago.  That's  about  what  I  think  of  books." 

He  leaned  back  against  the  railing  of  the  "  banisters  " 

(183) 


184  ODD  FOLKS. 

and  surveyed  the  party  with  the  satisfaction  of  a  man 
who  has  carried  his  point  and  who  is  thoroughly  pre 
pared  for  any  subsequent  attack.  The  ladies,  especially 
the  better-natured  ones,  smiled;  the  men,  with  one  ex 
ception,  laughed.  The  exception  was  a  young  lawyer 
from  Nashville.  He  looked  with  the  inquiry  of  dis 
approval  at  the  intruder,  and  then  quietly  remarked  : 

"I  had  thought  of  writing  a  book,  a  charming 
romance,  but  through  fear  that  I  might  possibly  compel 
you  to  take  up  another  mortgage,  I  will  forego  the 
pleasure." 

The  interloper,  no  wise  abashed,  replied:  "It's  a 
good  step  you're  takin',  I  reckon,  as  the  writin'  of  the 
book  might  be  more  interestin'  to  you  than  the  readin' 
of  it  would  be  to  anybody  else." 

"  Doubtless,"  retorted  the  young  lawyer,  "  you  are 
right.  Some  dull  plodder  might  attempt  to  spell 
it  out  and  bruise  his  alleged  mind  on  unlooked-for, 
sharp  corners." 

"  Young  feller,  what  is  your  name  ?  "  the  intruder 
asked  ;  and  the  young  fellow,  nerer  afraid  to  make  him 
self  known,  answered : 

"  I  am  George  Miles,  sir." 

"  Ah,  hah  !  George  Miles.     Where  do  you  live?  " 

"  Nashville,  sir." 

"  Ah,  hah  I  I  know  that  town  putty  well.  I  went 
along  with  the  army  some  little  durin'  the  war, 


NOT  FOR   THREE  HUNDRED   THOUSAND.  185 

and  bought  up  the  hides  of  the  cattle  that  were 
killed  for  the  soldiers,  and  made  a  pretty  good  thing 
out  of  it  in  the  Nashville  market.  I  used  to  know  an 
old  soap  boiler  there  named  Josh  Miles.  Any  kin  to 
him?" 

The  ladies  tittered  and  the  old  fellow  looked  at  them 
in  astonishment,  knowing  that  he  had  not  uttered  a 
witticism. 

"  I  never  heard  of  your  friend  Miles,"  said  the 
lawyer,  "  although  he  might  have  made  a  fair  article  of 
soap." 

"  Pity  for  you  then,  I  reckon,  as  all  men  were  cleaner 
for  havin'  knowed  old  Josh."  The  men  laughed,  the 
ladies  tittered  again,  and  the  old  fellow,  conscious  this 
time  that  he  must  have  said  something  to  the  point, 
bowed  his  acknowledgments.  Just  then  his  daughter 
appeared,  standing  in  a  door.  "Father,"  sits  called, 
"  I  am  read}r." 

"  I  am  ready,  too,"  he  answered,  and  withdrew  with 
clumsy  haste. 

That  evening,  while  Miles  and  several  other  men  sat 
under  a  tree,  smoking,  the  old  fellow  came  out  with  an 
enormous  cigar  in  his  mouth  and  "  squashed  "  himself 
down  on  a  bench. 

"  Boys,"  said  he,  breaking  into  the  conversation, 
"I'm  gittin' so  I  ruther  like  this  here  one-hoss  place. 
I  did  think  that  it  would  be  a  little  too  much  for  me  to 


186  ODD  FOLKS. 

stay  out  here,  and  I  wa'n't  keen  to  come  nuther,  but 
Minnie  set  her  heart  on  it  and  away  we  come.  My 
name  is  Beck." 

No  one  said  anything,  and  Mr.  Beck  continued : 
"  I  reckon  I've  done  about  as  much  hus'lin'  in  my  time 
as  the  most  of  men.  I  was  a  pore  boy,  but  instead  of 
foolin'  away  my  time  with  books  I  went  to  work  and 
ain't  sorry  for  it.  I  have  noticed,  in  my  knockin' 
round,  that  money  is  putty  nigh  the  boss.  It  may  not 
be  happiness  in  itself,  but  without  it  there  ain't  very 
much  enjoyment.  Larnin'  may  command  the  respect 
of  the  few,  but  money  employs  the  services  of  the  many, 
and  to  challenge  the  complete  respect  of  men  you  must 
make  'em  serve  you." 

"  I  don't  know  but  you  are  right,"  said  one  of  the 
men. 

"  Of  course  I'm  right,  and  what  is  the  use  of  people 
shuttin'  their  eyes  against  the  fact,  or  ruther  pretendin' 
that  they  do  ?  I  know  that  there's  a  sort  of  respecta 
bility,  or  I  mout  say  aristocracy  that  money  sometimes 
ain't  got,  but  just  wait  awhile  and  money '11  git  it  all 
right" 

"  What  business  are  you  in  ?"  some  one  asked. 

"Well,  I  ain't  in  any  business  now — have  retired, 
you  might  say.  I  made  my  money  in  different  sorts  of 
speculation  and  have  got  it  well  invested.  I  live  in 
Georgia  and  am  putty  much  at  home  when  I'm  there,  I 


NOT  FOR   THREE  HUNDRED    THOUSAND.  187 

can  tell  you.  My  wife  has  been  dead  a  good  while,  and 
about  all  I've  got  to  look  after  is  the  enjo}rment  of  my 
daughter.  Her  will  is  law  with  me  and  I  am  straight 
forward  enough  to  say  right  here,  or  right  anywhere, 
for  that  matter,  that  the  man  who  wins  her  love  will  be 
fortunate.  There's  about  two  hundred  thousand  dollars 
waitin'  for  him." 

George  Miles  looked  up  quickly  and,  with  a  sneer, 
said :  "  I  wouldn't  marry  her  for  three  hundred 
thousand." 

The  old  man  seized  his  cane,  which  he  had  leaned 
against  the  bench  and,  springing  to  his  feet,  glared  at 
Miles,  who,  without  changing  his  position,  sat  placidly 
smoking. 

"Do  you  mean  to  insult  me,  sir?  "  Beck  roared. 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  Miles  answered.  "  You  ex 
pressed  your  opinion  and  I  merely  expressed  mine. 
You  introduced  your  daughter's  name  in  a  way  not 
only  unnecessary  to  the  force  of  your  former  state 
ment  concerning  the  power  of  money,  but  with  a  nar 
row-minded  vulgarity  that  was  disgusting.  If  you 
want  to  strike  me,  do  so.  I  have  said  nothing  in 
disparagement  of  the  young  lady — I  said  that  I 
wouldn't  marry  her  for  three  hundred  thousand,  and  I 
wouldn't;  not  that  she  is  not  worthy  of  me,  but  be 
cause  our  tastes  are,  doubtless,  wholly  dissimilar. 
Jfow,  if  you  want  to  hit  me  with  that  stick,  all  right," 


188  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  I  won't  hit  you,"  Beck  replied.  "  What  you  say 
may  be  right  from  your  standp'int,  but  no  matter  what 
you  thought  about  my  daughter  you  ought  to  have 
kept  it  to  yourself.  It  looks  to  me  like  I  would  have 
studied  a  long  time  before  I  would  have  made  any  such 
remark — and  I  would  have  thought  that  any  true  gentle 
man  would  have  done  the  same.  I  am  a  rough-and- 
ready  sort  of  a  man,  and  admit  that  I  don't  always 
do  the  proper  thing,  and  if  my  room  is  worth  more 
to  you  than  my  company,  why,  I  wish  you  good- 


evenin'." 


"Oh,  no,"  several  of  the  men  cried,  but  he  brusquely 
hastened  away. 

"  George,  you  ought  not  to  have  said  that,"  a  friend 
remarked.  "You  can't  blame  him  for  thinking  so 
much  of  his  daughter,  nor  for  his  determination  to 
give  her  future  husband  two  hundred  thousand  dol 
lars." 

"My  clear  fellow,"  Miles  answered,  "I  don't  blame 
him  for  thinking  so  much  of  her,  and  I  commend  his 
determination  to  reward  her  future  husband,  but  I  do 
despise  his  vulgar  show.  He  is  an  old  bear,  and  I  want 
none  of  him." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  marrying  the  girl,"  said  a  young 
fellow  named  Hicks;  "I  could  put  up  with  the  girl's 
possible  bad  taste  and  with  the  old  man's  vulgarity. 
Yonder  go  the  old  man  and  the  girl.  He  is  looking 


NOT  FOR  THREE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND.  189 

this  way,  and  I  warrant  he  is  telling  her  about  you, 
George."' 

"  I  don't  care  if  he  is,"  Miles  replied.     "  His  ill-will 
and  her  prejudice  can't  hurt  me." 


CHAPTER  II. 

SEVERAL  days  later  Miles,  whose  friends  had  left 
the  place,  was  strolling  along  the  mountain's  side  when 
suddenly,  upon  turning  a  sharp  point  of  rock  that 
jutted  out  over  the  path,  he  met  Miss  Beck.  The  path 
was  too  narrow  to  admit  of  his  passing  the  girl,  and  he 
was  about  to  turn  back,  when  she  pleasantly  remarked : 

"  Oh,  don't  turn  back  on  my  account.     I  will  swing 
over  to  one  side  and  let  you  pass.    I  shouldn't  have  far 
to  fall,  you  see." 
,  "  I'll  hang  over,"  said  he,  bowing. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  interposed.  "  I  am  afraid  you  might 
hurt  yourself,  and  then " 

"And  then  what  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Nothing,  only  you  might  be  disfigured  if  you  should 
chance  to  fall,  and  you  might  afterward  consent  to 
marry  a  girl  for  less  than  three  hundred  thousand 
dallars." 

"  Ah,  your  father  repeated  my  remark,"  he  said, 
slightly  coloring. 


190  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  Yes,  or  I  shouldn't  have  known  of  it,  as  I  wasn't 
eavesdropping." 

He  would  gladly  have  tumbled  off  to  let  her  pass, 
but  she  detained  him  with  this  remark : 

"  You  place  a  pretty  high  estimate  upon  yourself, 
don't  you?" 

"  Yes,  rather,"  he  answered,  now  determined  to  be 
bold. 

"It  is  strange  that  I  never  heard  of  you,"  she  said. 
"  I  was  looking  over  a  sort  of  encyclopedia  of  great 
men  just  before  I  came  here,  and  it  is  singular  that 
your  picture  was  not  in  it." 

"The  compiler  of  the  book  called  on  me,"  he  re 
plied,  "  but  I  refused  to  become  the  victim  of  a  cheap 
print.  He  wanted  my  picture,  and  had  intended  that 
it  should  fill  one  page  and  run  over  on  the  second,  but 
I  refused." 

"And  I  suppose,"  said  the  girl,  "that  if  he  had 
thought  of  putting  in  your  self-importance,  he  would 
have  counted  on  filling  the  entire  book." 

"  I  don't  know,  but  if  he  had  done  so,  his  volume 
would  have  been  more  respectable." 

"  Oh,  it  must  be  delightful  to  be  so  respectable,"  she 
exclaimed,  with  enthusiasm.  "  By  the  way,  who  was 
your  father  ?  " 

"  His  name  is  Andrew  Miles." 

"  What  does  he  do  ?  " 


NOT  FOE  THREE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND.  191 

"  He  is  a  lawyer." 

"  Ah !  A  strange  country  this,  where  the  aristocracy 
is  composed  mainly  of  lawyers.  What  was  your 
grandfather,  or  did  you  ever  hear  of  him  ?  " 

Miles  blushed.  He  had  heard  more  or  less  vaguely, 
of  one  of  his  grandfathers — had  heard  that  he  was  a 
cobbler  and  that  he  had  deserted  from  the  army  dur 
ing  the  war  of  1812. 

"  Oh,  don't  tax  your  memory  with  trying  to  recall 
his  name.  I  am  so  glad  to  have  met  you,"  she  sud 
denly  exclaimed.  "  I  like  to  see  gentleness  and  con 
sideration  joined  with  greatness.  Now,  sir,  if  you  feel 
disposed  to  scramble  down  you  would  oblige  me  by 
doing  so." 


The  season  was  growing  late,  and  there  were  but  few 
visitors  remaining.  Miles  continued  to  linger,  partly 
because  it  made  but  little  difference  where  he  was,  and 
partly  because  he  didn't  want  that  Miss  Beck  to  think 
that  she  had  driven  him  off.  He  met  her  every  day, 
and  spoke,  in  reply  to  her,  his  little  piece  of  sarcasm. 
One  day  while  the  girl  was  playing  on  the  piano  he 
strode  into  the  parlor.  She  ceased  playing  upon  see 
ing  him,  and  turning,  said  : 

."  I  don't  object  to  mild  punishment,  but  I  will  not 
torture  you  with  my  music." 


1S2  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  You  are  becoming  considerate  as  the  days  pass  by." 
"  Yes,  and  I  am  tired  of  playing,  anyway.     Isn't  it  a 
great  pity  that  father  isn't  worth  four  hundred  thou 
sand  dollars." 
"Why  so?" 

"  Because  he  mignt  then  be  able  to  marry  me  off." 
"  Possibly.     Some  men  are  not  very  particular." 
"  And,"  said  she,  "  I  am  convinced  that  the  majority 
of  women  are  not  particular  at  all." 

The  old  man  appeared  in  the  door.     His  face  was 
haggard  and  a  wild  look  was  in  his  eyes. 
"  Minnie,"  he  called,  "  Minnie,  come  here." 
She  ran  to  him   and  Miles  heard  him  say,  "I  am 
ruined.     That  iron  company  is  busted  up  and  I  am 
ruined." 

It  was  rather  late  at  night.  The  Becks  were  arrang 
ing  their  departure.  Miles  was  sitting  in  the  parlor 
when  Miss  Beck  entered.  Seeing  him,  she  drew  back 
jiiid  was  about  to  withdraw,  when  he  bade  her  stay  a 
moment. 

"  You  must  excuse  me,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  care  to 
hear  any  sarcasm  to-night;  I  don't  believe  I  could 
stand  it.  I  am  very  wretched  on  my  father's  account. 
He  has  been  victimized  and  is  now  a  pauper." 

"  Arid  are  you  not  wretched  on  your  own  account?  " 
he  asked. 


NOT  FOB   THREE  HUNDRED   THOUSAND.  193 

"Please  don't  gibe  me  now,"  she  pleaded. 

He  got  up  and  moving  slowly  toward  her,  said: 
"  I  am  no  better  than  one  of  my  grandfathers,  and  he 
was  shot  for  desertion.  I  have  been  a  prig,  a  brute, 
and  now  I  will  give  you  the  opportunity  to  humiliate 
me.  I  love  you." 

She  said  nothing — she  stood  as  if  stunned,  but  her 
eyes  spoke  and  he  put  his  arms  about  her. 

"It— it  will  mnke  that  poor  old  man  happy  again," 
she  said.     "  It  will  make  him  happy  for  he  knows  that 
I  love  you." 
13 


HER  SWEET  DREAM. 


MANY  a  season  had  passed  since  any  one  had  ven 
tured  to  teach  a  school  in  the  Black-Haw  neighborhood. 
The  old  log  house  wherein  so  many  droning  voices  had 
in  times  gone  by  parsed  "  John  found  his  hat  in  the 
road,"  had  begun  to  squat  with  the  weight  of  time  rest 
ing  upon  it ;  hazel-bushes  grew  about  the  doorstep,  and 
a  grape-vine,  crawling  on  the  ground,  passed  a  dozen 
sassafras  saplings  to  droop  over  the  window.  It  is  said 
that  Henry  Clay  once  "  taught  a  term  "  in  this  house, 
but  of  this  there  is  no  direct  proof,  though  it  is  well 
authenticated  that  Tom  Marshall  came  hither  at  night 
to  join  in  debate  with  the  wiseacres  of  the  community. 
After  the  war  the  Black-Haw  community  lost  its  ambi 
tion  ;  the  old  men  were  cowed,  and  the  young  men 
went  West,  and  during  ten  years  the  schoolhouse  was 
idle.  Then  came  along  a  spry  young  man  who  said 
that  he  wanted  to  earn  money  enough  to  finish  his  own 
education.  He  mounted  a  horse  and  circulated  a  paper. 
Some  families  subscribed  a  scholar,  some  a  half,  and 

some  but  a  third ;  but  he  gathered  what  might  have 
(194) 


HER  SWEET  DREAM.  195 

been  regarded  as  a  fair  sprinkling,  and  opened  up  his 
school.  Perhaps  his  own  education  was  finished, 
though  of  this  nothing  is  known,  but  it  is  known  that 
he  did  not  earn  the  money  in  that  neighborhood ;  for 
on  the  third  morning  after  he  took  his  place  beside  the 
great  flagstone  hearth,  a  lout  of  a  youngster  clothed  in 
brown  jeans  came  up  and  declared  that  it  was  all  right 
to  study  and  make  pot-hooks  with  pokeberry  ink,  but 
that  the  time  to  treat  had  come. 

"  Treat !  "  exclaimed  the  teacher,  and  his  eyes  stuck 
out.  "  I  haven't  enough  money  to  buy  a  handker 
chief:  so  don't  come  to  me  with  a  proposition  to 
treat." 

The  boy  said  that  he  was  sorry  that  the  teacher  had 
no  handkerchief;  he  reckoned  that  every  educated  man 
ought  to  have  one,  but  at  the  same  time  if  education 
couldn't  furnish  a  man  with  a  handkerchief,  what  was 
the  use  of  spending  half  a  lifetime  in  getting  an  educa 
tion  ? 

The  teacher  ordered  him  to  sit  down.  He  was  rather 
a  polite  boy,  and  he  did  not  positively  refuse,  but  he 
demurred.  He  said  that  he  wasn't  at  all  tired;  said 
that  he  had  been  sitting  down  all  day.  No,  he  didn't 
want  to  sit  down  ;  he  wanted  to  eat. 

The  crossroads  grocer,  not  more  than  five  miles 
away,  had  cove  oysters  and  cheese,  and  a  council  of 
four  had  decided  that  the  teacher  must  trudge  over  to 


196  ODD  FOLKS. 

the  store,  accompanied  by  an  escort  of  honor,  and  pur 
chase  specified  material  for  a  small  feast.  The  council 
knew  that  times  were  hard,  and  therefore  would  not 
insist  that  the  entire  school  be  invited  to  the  feast; 
indeed,  the  council  insisted  upon  a  feast  for  the 
council. 

The  teacher's  smile  was  yellowish  and  sickly ;  he 
said  that  he  appreciated  the  generosity  of  the  council, 
but  that  modesty  compelled  him  to  decline  the  escort 
of  honor. 

A  few  more  remarks  were  made,  and  then  an  an 
cient  dust  began  to  arise  from  the  floor.  Along  to 
ward  noon  the  young  man  stepped  out  of  the  school 
room,  with  the  back  of  his  coat  sliced  like  a  gridiron ; 
after  that,  year  after  year,  the  old  house  was  empty. 

One  afternoon,  not  long  ago,  a  young  woman  called 
at  the  house  of  Clab  Morris,  and  said  that  she  had 
come  to  teach  school  in  the  old  house.  The  visitor  had 
just  sat  down  upon  a  bench  which  Clab  had  drawn  out 
from  the  wall,  and  she  did  not  see  him  when  he  turned 
his  face  away  to  laugh  ;  but  she  must  have  heard  his 
snicker,  for  she  looked  at  him  sharply  when  he  gave  her 
his  attention  again.  She  was  young,  rather  frail  and 
pretty.  She  was  dressed  in  bright  colors,  and  looked 
like  a  part  of  the  springtime,  just  come,  and  just  be 
ginning  to  green  the  hillsides. 

"  Well,"  said  Clab,  "  I've  got  no  objections." 


HER  SWEET  DREAM.  197 

"  I  thank  you.  I  was  told  that  you  were  about  the 
most  influential  man  in  the  neighborhood " 

"  Yes,"  he  broke  in  ;  "I  reckon  I  am.  Don't  know 
Lit  Smith,  I  guess  ?  " 

"  No,  sir."  | 

"  Well,  I  can  fling  him  down  three  times  outen  five, 
any  day,  and  a  man  that  can  do  that  has  got  influence, 
I  tell  you.  Still,  I  ain't  proud,  and  you  neenter  hesitate 
to  talk  to  me  jest  as  you  feel." 

She  smiled,  arid  replied  :  "  It  is  rare  that  one  meets 
with  such  modesty." 

"  Yes,  I  reckon  it  is.  Folks  these  days  brag  a  mon- 
st'us  sight;  but  I  allus  made  it  a  p'int  to  be  modest. 
You'll  sorter  have  to  excuse  things  around  here  ;  wife 
has  gone  over  to  one  of  the  neighbor's,  and  won't 
be  back  for  an  hour  or  so;  children  all  growed  up 
and  gone.  Now,  what  is  your  idee  of  teachin'  of  a 
school?" 

She  explained  that  she  would  teach  good  manners, 
as  well  as  reading  and  writing,  and  he  nodded  his  head 
in  approval. 

"  Good  manners,"  he  said,  "  is  a  mighty  fine  thing. 
Goin'  along  the  road  the  other  day,  and  one  of  Phil 
Mayhew's  boys  flung  a  rock  at  me,  and  pecked  a  hole 
in  my  old  mar's  head.  And  I  should  think  that  sich  a 
youngster  was  somewhat  lackin'  in  good  manners, 
wouldn't  you?" 


398  ODD  FOLKS. 

She  agreed  that  she  thought  so,  and  the  affinity  thus 
established  greatly  pleased  him.  He  said  he  would  do 
all  he  could  to  assist  her  in  getting  up  the  school. 

"  But  I  don't  see  why  you  want  to  teach  school,"  he 
added.  "  I  allus  thought  women  that  couldn't  git 
married  was  the  ones  that  teached  school ;  but  it 
strikes  me  that  you  could  marry  about  any  man  that 
might  happen  to  come  along.  Them  eyes  of  your'n 
look  like  violets  a-peepin'  outen  the  snow.  Thar,  now, 
'skuze  me  ;  didn't  mean  no  harm.  But  I  mean  it  when 
I' say  you  could  marry  most  anybody.  Why,  my  son 
Zeb,  the  hoss  doctor,  would  break  his  neck  atter  you, 
'cause  he's  a  good  jeclge  of  fine  stock,  and  I  want  to 
tell  you  that  a  hoss  has  to  be  monst'us  sick  to  git 
away  from  him.  Yes,  you'd  ketch  any  man's  eye,  and 
ef  I  wa'n't  married — but  I  don't  want  to  brag.  Now 
tell  me  a  leetle  somethin'  about  yourself." 

"  Must  I  be  perfectly  frank  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  but  I  think  you 
ought  to." 

"  I  will.  I  live  quite  a  distance  from  here.  A 
young  man  and  I  had  a  quarrel,  and  I  have  come  away 
to  teach  school." 

"  Ah,  ha  !  and  I  don't  reckon  the  young  man  was  yo' 
brother.  That's  all  right.  I've  got  a  good  deal  of  sym 
pathy  for  folks  that  have  quarrels.  Don't  say  nothin' 
about  it,  but  some  time  ago  wife  an'  me  had  a  quarrel, 


HER  SWEET  DEE  AM.  1" 

and  I'm  big  enough  to  say  that  it  was  mostly  my  fault. 
I  tuck  a  lot  of  her  carpet-rags  to  wash  off  a  hoss  with, 
and  she  felt  insulted,  and  I  did,  too,  when  she   did, 
and  so  we  had  it.     Well,  I  didn't  go  off  to  teach  school, 
but  I  went  out  into  the  woods  and   swore    that    I'd 
sleep  thai  behind  a  log  till   she   'pologized,   and    she 
'lowed  that  ef  I  waited  for  that  I'd  lay  thar  as  long 
as   the  log  did,  and  so  we  had  it.     I  raked  up  some 
leaves  and  lay  down  behind  the  log,  and  that  evenin' 
she  brought  my  supper,  and  I  lay  thar  and  eat  it,  and 
wiped  my  hands  on  the  leaves,  and  'lowed  that  every 
thing  was  all  right.     I  slept  first-rate,   and  the    next 
mornin'  I  went  about  my  business  as  usual,  and  the 
next  night  I  tuck  my  place  behind  the  log.     About 
nine   o'clock    she    come    out   and  asked  me  ef  I  had 
kiver  enough,  and  I  told  her  that  I  believed  not ;  so 
she  raked  up  a  few  more  leaves  and  put  'em  on  me, 
and  went  on  back  to  the  house.     Well,  I  got  along  all 
right   till   about  twelve  o'clock,  and   then   come   the 
coldest  rain  you  ever  seed ;  and  jest  about  the  time  I  got 
soakiu'   wet   it   turned   off  into   a   freeze,  and   then  1 
'lowed  that  it  was  about  time  for  me  to  'pologize,  and  I 
got  outen  that  pile  of  leaves  and  walked  home  like  a 
board,  and  since   then  I've  let  her  carpet-rags  alone,  I 
tell  you.     Why,  bless  my  life,  and  your'n,  too,  yander 
she  comes  now," 


200  ODD  FOLKS. 

Again  on  the  playground  there  were  shouts  of 
laughter  and  the  soft  patter  of  bare  feet,  and  a  favor 
ite  with  everyone  was  Miss  Elmer,  the  teacher.  The 
larger  boys  were  at  work  in  the  fields,  hastening  to 
plant  the  crops,  and  there  among  the  hazel-bushes  and 
the  vines  the  young  woman  worked  and  dreamed. 
Nearly  every  day,  at  playtime,  sitting  where  the  light 
was  mellow,  she  would  write  a  letter,  but  she  always 
tore  it  to  pieces  when  "  books  "  were  called. 

"  What  makes  you  write  so  much  and  tear  it  up?  "  a 
little  girl  asked.  "  Why  don't  you  come  and  play  with 
us?" 

And  the  teacher  answered,  "  I  am  writing  a  dream 
that  came  to  me  and  went  away  again." 

"  And  do  you  keep  on  writing  it,  hoping  it  will  come 
back  ?  "  an  older  girl  asked. 

But  the  young  woman  shook  her  head,  and  told 
them  that  they  must  talk  no  more  about  it.  But  the 
next  day  she  would  write  another  letter.  Once  she 
put  her  writing  into  an  envelope,  and  gave  it  to  old 
Clab  to  post ;  but  she  ran  after  him,  took  it,  and  tore  it 
into  pieces,  red  with  blushes,  as  she  scattered  the  frag 
ments  in  the  road. 

Clab's  wife  knew  that  a  man  was  at  the  bottom  of 
the  young  woman's  trouble. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  one  morning,  just  as  Miss  El 
mer  was  getting  ready  for  school,  '*  I  wouldn't  pester 


HER  SWEET  DREAM.  201 

myself  with  writin'  so  much ;  it's  about  a  fetch-taked 
man,  and  I  know  it ;  and  I  want  to  tell  you  that  there 
is  hardly  one  of  them  that's  worth  the  powder  and  lead 
to  kill  'em.  They  do  provoke  a  body  so,  a-sp'ilin' 
carpet-rags  and  a-wallerin'  behind  logs  in  the  pouts ;  so 
ef  I  was  you  I  would  jest  go  ahead  with  my  school,  and 
let  him  alone,  whoever  he  may  be.  Here  comes  Sam 
Briley." 

Briley  was  the  mental  mystery  of  the  neighborhood ; 
he  was  called  inoffensive,  but  Miss  Elmer  was  afraid  of 
him.  Often  at  night  he  would  come  to  the  house,  and 
sitting  with  his  eyes  fastened  on  her,  would  say  the 
oddest  things. 

"I'll  walk  down  to  the  schoolhouse  with  you,"  he 
said,  nodding  at  old  Clab's  wife,  and  then  shooting  a 
gaze  at  the  teacher. 

She  was  afraid  to  refuse,  so  she  walked  on,  saying 
nothing.  He  walked  beside  her. 

"Did  you  write  you'  long  letter  yistidy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"What  for?'* 

"  To  tear  up." 

"  What  you  want  to  write  it  fur,  if  you  tear  it  up  ?  " 

"  Because  I  feel  like  writing  it,  and  then  I  feel  like 
tearing  it  up." 

"  I  don't  like  it." 

"  You  don't  libe  it ! " 


202  ODD  FOLKS. 

"  That's  what  I  said." 

"  What  have  you  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  A  good  deal ;  don't  want  you  to  write  to  a  man." 

She  looked  at  him,  walking  along ;  she  moved  fur 
ther  away  from  him,  but  he  stepped  up  close  beside 
her. 

"I  ain't  told  you  yet,"  he  said,  "  but  I  had  a  dream, 
too.  Heard  you  say  that  you  had  one.  And  in  my 
dream  I  heard  a  voice  say  that  you  was  made  for  me, 
and  not  for  the  man  that  you  write  letters  to." 

"  Mr.  Briley,  will  you  please  go  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'll  do  that ;  but  you  musri't  expect  me  to  stay 
away.  They  say  that  I  went  crazy  on  religion,  and  I 
'lowed  that  they  might  be  right,  but  now  I  know  they 
was  wrong.  I  went  crazy  about  you,  years  before  I 
saw  you,  and  my  dream  tells  me  that  you  can  bring  my 
mind  back  and  make  me  happy.  Will  you  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him.  They  were  standing  still,  facing 
each  other.  His  face  was  pale,  and  his  eyes  looked  like 
coals  of  fire  in  a  bed  of  ashes.  She  was  frightened. 

"  Don't  try  to  run  away  from  me,"  he  said ;  "  I  can 
run  faster  than  you  can,  but  I  won't  pass  you ;  I'll 
keep  up  with  you,  and  we'll  run  on  to  the  end  of  the 
rainbow  together.  I'll  let  you  go  now,  but  to-night 
I'll  come  to  the  house  and  tell  you  more  about  my 
plans." 

He  turned  away,  and  she  hastened  to  the  school.     At 


HER  SWEET  DREAM.  203 

playtime  she  sat  alone,  dreaming  her  dream,  but  it  was 
fitful  with  the  image  of  the  crazy  man  flitting  through 
it.  A  little  girl  came  up  to  her,  hanging  back,  and 
stammering. 

"  What  is  the  trouble,  Mollie  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  If  I  tell  you  you'll  whip  me,"  the  child  replied. 

"  No,  I  won't." 

"  It  was  awful  bad,  but  I  did  it." 

"Did  what?" 

"  Sent  the  pieces  of  letter.  You  took  the  letter  from 
old  Caleb  and  tore  it  to  pieces  and  threw  the  pieces  in 
the  road ;  but  you  didn't  tear  the  envelope  very  much, 
and  I  took  all  the  pieces  and  found  the  name  on  the 
envelope,  and  put  all  the  pieces  in  another  envelope, 
and  wrote  the  name  on  it,  and  put  it  in  the  post  office 
because  it  made  me  sorry  to  see  you  writing  all  the 
time.  And  now  are  you  going  to  whip  me  ?  " 

The  teacher  could  scarcely  speak.  "  Run  on  away," 
she  sobbed. 

The  children  were  dismissed  and  in  a  corner  where 
the  light  was  soft  the  teacher  sat  dreaming.  But  in 
the  dream  was  the  image  of  the  insane  man,  and  she 
felt  that  he  was  at  the  house,  waiting  for  her.  She 
dreaded  to  meet  him  again.  An  hour  passed  but  she 
did  not  write — she  sat  there  dreaming.  During  the 
day  there  had  been  a  hoarse  wind  in  the  tree  tops;  now 
it  was  a  whisper  among  the  bushes.  Suddenly  she  was 


204  ODD  FOLKS. 

startled  by  a  footstep  at  the  door.  She  sprung  to  her 
feet  to  run  away,  but  a  voice  commanded  her  to  stay. 
The  insane  man  stood  at  the  threshold ;  in  his  hand  lie 
held  an  enormous  bludgeon. 

"  Stand  right  where  you  are,"  he  commanded,  ad 
vancing  into  the  room. 

She  stood  there,  trembling.  He  halted  in  front  of 
the  long  writing  table  and  placed  his  club  upon  it. 

"  Don't  move,"  he  said.  For  a  time  he  was  silent 
and  then  he  continued  :  "  I  have  had  another  dream 
and  this  time  it  was  perfectly  clear.  At  first  I  thought 
that  to  save  my  life  you  had  to  be  my  wife,  but  my 
dream  tells  me  better." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  she  cried. 

"  But  hold  on.  You  are  not  to  save  me  that  way, 
but  you  are  to  save  me  after  all.  The  blood  of  the 
lamb  taketh  away  the  sin  of  the  world.  You  are  the 
lamb  and  I  am  the  world.  And  your  blood  must  wash 
away  my  sins.  You  are  saved  already  for  you  are  a 
lamb,  but  I  am  condemned  for  I  am  the  world  and 
therefore  full  of  sin.  But  even  a  lamb  must  pray,  and 
now—  With  his  finger  nail  he  made  a  mark  in  the 

soft  wood  of  the  table.  "  And  now,  when  the  sun  gets 
here,  you  must  die." 

She  was  a  brave  little  creature.  She  did  not  scream  ; 
she  would  argue  with  him.  The  sun  was  going  fast 
and  the  light  had  but  an  inch  to  move.  She  looked 


SEE  SWEET  DREAM.  205 

at  the  light — looked  at  the  club  which  he  had  taken 
up. 

"  When  it  reaches  this  mark  there  will  be  two  blows," 
he  said,  "  one  on  the  table  as  the  signal  and  the  other 
on " 

"  I  understand,"  she  interrupted,  "  but  you  must 
know  that  it  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  die  in  order  to 
save  you.  I  can  save  you  better  by  living." 

"No,"  he  replied,  shaking  his  head,  "my  dream  tells 
me  not." 

"But  I  have  had  a  dream,  and  it  tells  me  that  I  must 
live  for  you,  not  die  for  you." 

"  Your  dream  is  a  lie ;  mine  is  the  truth." 

"But,"  she  persisted,  "my  dream  says  that  yours  is 
a  lie.  Let  us  go  to  the  house  and  compare  them." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  No,  dreams  are  nothing  when 
you  begin  to  compare  them." 

"  Why,  they  told  me  that  you  were  a  half-wit  and 
here  you  are  talking  wisdom,"  she  cried. 

He  nodded  his  head  and  looked  down  at  the  mark. 

"They  told  you  the  truth,"  he  said.  "But  some 
times  a  half-wit  is  better  than  a  whole  wit.  Let  me 
see."  He  unbuttoned  his  coat.  "I  must  dye  the 
bosom  of  my  shirt  with  your  blood — and  it  will  be 
beautiful.  Don't  you  wish  you  could  see  it  ?  Oh,  you 
are  a  beautiful  creature.  And  ain't  it  right  that  you 
should  pay  the  penalty  for  such  beauty?  How  things 


206  ODD  FOLKS. 

do  change.  This  morning  I  wanted  you  for  my  wife, 
but  now  I  want  your  beautiful  blood.  Yesterday  I 
was  a  fool,  spluttering  a  fool's  words,  but  now  I  am  a 
wise  man  with  a  strange  fire  in  my  breast.  And  I  be 
lieve  that  when  I  go  out  of  here  with  my  bosom  dyed 
with  your  precious  blood—  He  hesitated,  gazing 

down  upon  the  table,  but  the  light  was  gone ;  a  fleck 
of  cloud  had  dimmed  the  sun.  "  It  will  be  back  in  a 
moment,"  he  said. 

The  light  came  back.  It  was  almost  touching  the 
mark.  "Let  me  pray,"  she  said,  sinking  upon  her 
knees  as  she  saw  him  grasp  the  club.  After  all  it  was 
not  so  hard  to  die.  She  had  nothing  to  live  for.  The 
madman  struck  the  desk.  The  next  blow — it  did  not 
fall.  She  waited,  praying,  afraid  to  look  up.  The  ter 
rific  blow  upon  the  table  had  deafened  her,  and  she 
heard  nothing  more,  no  footsteps,  no  struggle,  no  fall 
upon  the  floor — nothing.  Something  touched  her  hair. 
She  sprung  to  her  feet  and  a  young  man  seized  her  in 
his  arms. 

At  the  door  they  halted  and  looked  back.  The 
madman  lay  sprawled  upon  the  floor  with  his  arms 
spread  out.  They  did  not  speak,  both  silently  wonder 
ing  if  he  were  dead.  The  madman  groaned,  and  the 
young  man  and  the  teacher,  with  a  look  of  relief, 
hastened  away. 

"  Your  torn  letter " 


HER  SWEET  DREAM.  207 

"The  mischief  of  a  blessed  child,"  she  broke  in. 
"  But  let  us  say  nothing  now." 

They  passed  a  log  house  and  a  little  girl  ran  out. 
The  teacher,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  took  the  little 
thing  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  passionately.  "  Oh, 
you  have  brought  back  my  sweet  dream,"  she  said. 


THE  END. 


Read     Opj 


e   P. 


955 

R284 
od 


M130309 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


